#as more and more pieces of me collapse in upon themselves

[freepassbound]

The centre cannot hold.

[chelseeebe]

still into you

after abruptly leaving hawkins (and you) seven years ago, eddie munson, ex-boyfriend turned rockstar, makes a grand return. how will things pan out when your lives couldn’t be further apart?

this has been in the drafts for god knows how long and you can definitely tell where my writing started to improve as i came back to it.. hope y’all enjoy anyway! this is so long good lord. also includes a bit of bestfriendism with stevie!

18+. mdni. smut. mentions of alcohol. eddie is a dickhead. no use of y/n!

read part two here.

‎♡‧₊˚

‘you know he’s coming back next weekend?’ steve mutters, nodding towards you as you rip the sellotape from the brown box, beginning to stack the cans of soup.

‘is he? oh my god oh my god,’ feigning excitement with a straight face.

you’d already known he was coming back, you’d received the invitation just like everybody else. except, you’d swiftly put the gimmicky piece of paper into the trash and got on with your day. confused why everyone else seemed to be losing their goddamn minds over it.

he huffs quietly, helping you with the heavy tins, ‘are you gonna go?’ steve didn’t actually work in melvalds but came in on his breaks purely to chat and distract you from your work.

‘am i gonna go? hmm, let me think.. no.’

‘he wants to see you.. you should come,’ prodding his elbow into your side, collapsing the box into a flat piece of cardboard.

‘you spoke to him?’ ears perking up. you didn’t care if he’d mentioned you. no, really.

‘yeah.. he called a few weeks ago, y’know when the invitations got sent out,’ picking up the next box to start filling the shelf.

‘oh! it’s nice to know he called you and just hilarious to know i never got a phone call,’ getting frankly quite sick of hearing about eddie fucking munson and his grand return.

once upon a time, eddie had actually been your boyfriend. must’ve been 7 or so years ago by this point.. anyway, that was before he’d got his big break and decided that he was going to completely forget about hawkins.. and about you. you’d still been together after his first tiny tour, excitedly waiting for him to come home when he just.. never did.

he’d had the decency to at least call and tell you that he was breaking up with you.. we’re just in different places right now.. it’s not you.. i don’t want you to ruin your life waiting for me..

it was essentially a whole bunch of bullshit, because the very next month he was spotted with some bottle blonde model looking suspiciously close at some club he’d have absolutely hated the year prior. it was like a punch to the gut, flicking through the pages of the trashy magazine just knowing that you hadn’t been enough for this new lifestyle of his.

from then on, you’d decided to disengage with any and everything about him. turning the tv off when corroded coffin came on one of the morning talk shows, leaving the room at parties when one of his song’s inevitably came on and just completely blanking out of the conversation when his name was brought up. it was easier that way, saved your feelings and the awkward glances you’d get.

at some point things had become slightly more complicated and you’re not sure how exactly it had happened but you had wound up pregnant. and by jason carver no less. maybe it was your shared disdain for eddie that had brought you together. who knows?

but it had happened and now you had to deal with it. and although jason may come in a close second to world’s biggest assholes.. you had gained a beautiful daughter from it all and had become quite content with your single mom life.

people had come and gone, robin jetting off to some fancy college in california.. jonathan and nancy ending up in new york at some hot-shot newspaper.. the kids you’d sort of gathered had all gone off to various colleges, becoming adults themselves. all except for steve.

steve had stayed in hawkins like you, begrudgingly following his father’s footsteps, getting a job at his accounting firm. it was good money and kept his dad happy so he couldn’t fault it really. he’d even got his own place just down the street from your house and at some point you’d just accepted that he was probably your only friend in hawkins.

it had brought the two of you undeniably closer and maybe you’d even call him your best friend now. well, except for right now as he was beginning to piss you off with all this fussing over eddie.

‘you have to come.. it’s not just for him, everyone is going.. it’s a reunion,’ steve continues to pester you despite your efforts to shut him down.

‘steve, i’m not going and that’s that.’

he sighs, staring at you with a blank expression, ‘okay, well.. i’ll tell him it’s a maybe,’ checking his watch before frowning, ‘shit, i’m late.. i’ll see you later,’ throwing the empty cardboard to the floor before dashing off down the aisle, giving you an exaggerated wave as he disappears.

you just knew that he was not going to drop this until you agreed to go. but he could kick and scream as much as he liked, you had absolutely zero desire to go this flimsy reunion and even less desire to see eddie in the flesh.

-

it’s another dull week of stacking shelves and managing a team of absolute morons and before you know it, it’s the day before that fucking reunion and steve is still as incessant as ever that you must go.

‘my mom can look after ella.. please just come,’ he sounded like he was a second away from getting on his knees to actually beg you to go.

you’d started to just ignore him now, getting on with whatever you were doing, choosing to give him the silent treatment. he hated that.

‘you’re so annoying,’ he scoffs, still helping you unbox the bags of chips, ‘will you just come for five minutes.. you don’t even have to talk to eddie, it’s the first time we’ll all be together again.. puh-leaseee,’ breaking into a weird sort of sing-song tone.

you exhale through your nose, visibly frustrated by the man, ‘i’m going to ban you in a minute,’ raising your eyebrows, taking the same tone you used when ella was being a brat.

‘no you won’t,’ furrowing his brows, ‘what if i promise to stand in between you the whole night? i’ll beat him with a stick if he even tries to talk to you,’ completely serious with what he just said.

you chortle, covering your mouth as one of the elderly customers walks past, slightly bewildered by the noise that just escaped your mouth, ‘couldn’t you just beat him with a stick anyway?’

‘ehh.. not really, he is paying for the whole thing,’ straightening the bags of air he’d just placed on the shelf, ‘i mean, i could if you really want me to.’

you roll your eyes, of course he was. he’d rented the fanciest restaurant just outside of town for your gaggle of pals. any chance to flaunt the fact that he’d made it out of this hell hole and left the rest of you in the dirt.

‘i have a child, steve, i can’t just go out and leave her at home.. some of us aren’t free like you are,’ turning to face him with a stern hand on your hip.

‘i just told you my mom’ll look after her.. she hasn’t seen her in so long and.. and you can stay at mine and i’ll take you to her first thing in the morning,’ his eyes are round, glimmering in the harsh overhead lights.

‘i don’t have anything to wear,’ shrugging, you really didn’t. becoming a mother isn’t quite so glamorous and a lot of clothes you’d once fit into had become a little tight.

‘when d’you finish?’

narrowing your eyes at him, ‘two..’

‘great.. okay well, i’ll take a half-day and we can go shopping.. on me,’ wiggling his eyebrows at you. the thing about steve is that he believes that most problems can be solved by throwing money at it.

he wasn’t wrong, of course.

because you reluctantly agree to go shopping with him on the condition that you weren’t definitely going to this thing. you were just going to try on dresses. that was it.

-

you get a cab to the restaurant, there was no way in hell you were doing this sober nor did you want to subject steve to being sober for your sake. palms clammy as you clamber out of the vehicle, immediately regretting your decision.

no one would care if you didn’t go, right? you could quite easily just get back into the taxi and go home without forcing yourself to endure the night.

steve’s one step ahead of you, grabbing your hand so you can’t run away. throwing him an awful glare but you weren’t really mad, just annoyed that he’d succeeded in persuading you to come.

‘c’mon.. it won’t be so bad once you’re in there,’ smoothing down his fresh shirt as he begins to walk up the winding path, dragging you along behind him.

he’s wrong. it’s so much worse inside. the place was huge, extravagantly decorated and full of people you’d once regarded as your best friends, all too busy in their own conversations to notice you and steve walk in.

it wasn’t like you hadn’t heard from them, it had just been through occasional letters and christmas cards rather than seeing them face to face. robin would call sometimes, fill you in on whatever she had been up to and beg to speak to ella who absolutely loved it. you were sure they were on the same wavelength.

you look to steve with wary eyes, digging your fingertips into his hand, ‘we could just leave right now.. no one would even know,’ tugging gently on his arm.

‘hey,’ he whispers, ‘it’s okay.. look, robin’s coming over, we’ll say hi and see how you feel,’ using his spare hand to wave at the bubbly girl, dropping your hand to give her a hug.

‘oh my god,’ she rushes, ‘how are you? you look so good.. and i don’t mean you,’ pulling away from steve to throw her arms around you, her gentle hands rubbing on your back.

‘hah, it’s nice to see you too,’ steve rolls his eyes, grabbing two of the champagne flutes being ferried around by fancy waiters.

she pulls back, ‘i didn’t think you were coming.. how are you doing? how’s ella?’ the words falling out of her mouth at super speed, it was as if her mouth moved before her brain did.

‘i wasn’t gonna but i wanted to see you guys,’ you nod, taking the glass from steve’s outstretched hand and taking a lengthy sip, ‘i’m okay.. ella’s okay.. you’ll have to come and see her before you leave.’

‘i will i will! i literally landed like two hours ago and had to rush but i’m back until friday,’ her hands flying around as she spoke, ‘come and say hello..’ her arm intertwines with yours as she leans in closer to your ear, ‘he’s staring y’know..’

your eyes roll back on their own, not even wanting to search the room for him, ‘i’m not speaking to him so he can stare all he likes,’ straightening up as you approach the group robin had left.

nancy’s talking to max about something in incredible detail but is quite to stop when you approach, mouth in a small ‘o’ as she hugs you, ‘you came? i thought we were gonna miss you,’ grinning wide when she pulls back.

you give an overdramatic sigh, ‘of course i had to come.. you’d all miss me too much,’ waving to the rest of the group.

there are a lot of small pleasantries swapped, asking about their journey’s here and how they’d been.. standard small talk. but then el asks to see a picture of ella, ecstatic that their names were so similar. you’d come prepared, pulling the creased picture out of your bag.

they all gush and coo over her, it was a picture you’d snapped from her first day of kindergarten, cheesing with her pigtails and pink hair bobbles. passing it around the gathered group, still steadily sipping on the bitter champagne.

‘who’s that?’ eddie asks, you hadn’t noticed him sidle over to the crowd, stood peering over lucas’ shoulder at the photograph.

your eyes meet his, seeing his face for the first time in what felt like centuries. he looked older, obviously, still sporting the same long curls except now it actually looked as if it’d been styled. he’s in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, forearms now littered with tattoos and a nice looking watch. your heart just about stops beating when you realise you’ll now have to explain exactly who that is.

‘uh.. that’s ella,’ you nod, not quite meeting his eyes, ‘..my daughter,’ taking the photo from lucas’ hand, the atmosphere had quite suddenly shifted and people begin to scatter, starting their own conversations so they don’t have to bare witness to this one.

‘oh.. oh, right.. well, congratulations then,’ the shadow of a smile on his lips, could he feel how fucking awkward this was?

‘thank you,’ giving him a half nod, startled as steve’s hand brushes the small of your back. he’d seen that you were in conversation and had left dustin to fulfil his security guard promise.

‘it’s nice that you two found each other.. you have a beautiful daughter,’ still not fully committed to smiling but he was getting there.

your face contorts, immediately looking to steve before letting out a god awful cackle, ‘oh no.. she’s not steve’s,’ covering your mouth before another taunting laugh comes out.

steve is trying to stifle his grin but fails, reaching his hand out to shake eddie’s hand, ‘ah man, no ella’s not mine but she is beautiful, isn’t she? how are you?’

you’re eternally grateful that he he’s managed to sway the conversation and you aren’t forced to explain why or how you’d had a child with jason fucking carver. turning back to robin as you hear steve ramble on about work and corroded coffin’s new album, something you had absolutely no care about.

‘shall we get another drink?’ robin asks, eyeing the open bar and your empty glass.

‘please.’

the rest of the night is going.. relatively well. it’s kinda unsettling to watch the younger kids drink legally, getting more boisterous and loud as the night progresses. it’s nice, if not a little sad just thinking about how you weren’t really able to enjoy yourself at their age because you had a newborn.

you must’ve been deep in thought as you don’t even notice eddie creep up to the empty table, standing awkwardly besides your chair, ‘can we talk?’

your eyes shoot up to meet his, baffled by his presence, ‘what could we possibly have to talk about?’

he exhales through his nose, ‘uh.. a lot? we don’t have to do it here.. i have a room upstairs or.. outside?’

‘no,’ gripping onto your glass of wine, desperately trying to grab the attention of someone behind eddie to come and save you, ‘i don’t want to speak to you.’

he’s exasperated, clutching onto his beer with strained white knuckles. how were you ever supposed to move past this when you wouldn’t even give him the opportunity to explain himself. but that was exactly it. you didn’t care about any of the silly excuses you’re sure he’d conjured up, he did what he did and that was that.

‘i’m trying here..’ sounding exasperated, ‘how ‘bout dinner? sometime this week, on me,’ his voice is deeper now, raspier. you figure as a result of constant partying and chain smoking while on tour.

‘i have a child and a job.. i don’t have time for dinner with you on top of that,’ swallowing the rest of the sweet white wine, putting the empty glass back on the table with a forceful slam.

you make brief eye contact with will who was passing behind eddie and decide to take the opportunity to pounce, standing from your chair and rushing over the second he nears your table.

‘will.. hey,’ speeding to catch him up, mouthing a small save me, clinging to his arm as you move away from eddie who was stood deflated at the table.

will thankfully catches your drift, steering you towards the bar, ‘you okay? i was just about to leave..’ placing his empty glass onto the bar with a soft sigh.

‘what? no.. if i can’t go then you’re not allowed either,’ talking sternly to the boy even though he now towered above you and just about everybody else in here.

he screws up his face, looking over to the dance floor, ‘it’s just..’ sighing once again, ‘awful, isn’t it?’ following his gaze to an intoxicated mike performing an elaborate air guitar routine in the middle of the floor.

it wasn’t exactly the same, but you could empathise with the difficult situation and that foul feeling in your stomach that you were sure he could feel too. you could imagine that it wasn’t easy to see the man you’d once, or perhaps still loved after so long. in fact, you didn’t really need to imagine at all.

deciding it was better to change the subject, distract him from the unraveling scene on the dance floor, ‘d’you smoke?’

he looks around quickly, watching out for a listening jonathan, you assume before he nods quickly, ‘but no one can know,’ a hint of a smile creeping onto his face.

you return the devilish grin before hooking your arm in his, pulling him towards the door where you could get the hell away from annoying men and their long black hair.

-

it’s gone three by the time you get back to steve’s, genuinely having to coax him from the party and into the cab you’d shared with a belligerent dustin, making sure he had got home safely.

‘i wasn’t too mean, was i?’ snuggled up in steve’s blankets, facing each other in the low light of his room.

‘nooo, no you were on fire,’ he laughs, he was still tipsy and slightly reeking of booze as he lay next to you.

‘really? you’re sure?’ he was definitely just drunk and blabbing on but you’d take it.

‘yes.. it was perfect,’ he hiccups, interrupting his sentence, ‘buuut.. and i’m not the only one who said this so don’t kill me..’ kissing the back of his teeth, ‘you’re not gonna like what i have to say.’

‘what? what is it?’ prodding his shoulder with a quick jab. knowing eddie, he’d probably gone round the party whispering some bullshit about the two of you.

‘well..’ holding his hands in the air, ‘there’s still chemistry there.. y’know i could see it,’ raising his eyebrows, hands collapsing onto the blanket.

‘right, i’m going to sleep.. you’re drunk and just saying stupid shit now,’ rolling your eyes as you settle into the soft pillow, closing your eyes so you no longer had to entertain his idiotic nonsense.

he chortles, hiccuping mid-laugh which makes a horrid choking noise, ‘i’m not that drunk.. robin said it too,’ the lamp clicks off, darkening the room, ‘and dustin..’

‘go to sleep steve,’ unamused and tired.

‘okay okay.. goodnight,’ he calls, you can hear the smile in his voice as he turns to face the other way, taking that as your opportunity to rest your head on his back, nuzzling into the soft cotton t-shirt.

-

monday is particularly awful and you’re reminded exactly why you don’t drink often. two days on and you’re still exhausted, half-heartedly filling the shelves and just trying to make it to two o’clock.

in your tired state, one of the bottles of shampoo you were putting out, falls out of your hand and rolls off somewhere down the aisle. you sigh, a deep, fed-up, exhaustive sigh and get up to go and fetch it when the bottle appears before your face, a tattooed, ring-filled hand latched onto it.

‘carver? really?’ eddie frowns, watching you from above, eyebrows furrowed together.

you place the bottle onto it’s rightful spot on the shelf and choose to ignore him. if he’d come all the way down here just to piss you off about your poor life choices then he could get fucked.

‘when’d that happen?’

blanking him again as you continue to put stuff onto the shelves. this was the easiest way to guarantee that you weren’t going to get yourself fired for being rude to him.

‘you gonna ignore me? i just wanna know,’ still poking and prodding, he clearly wasn’t very good at picking up on context clues.

nothing.

‘fuck, can you just talk to me for five minutes?’ your silence was driving him crazy, aggravating him to no end.

‘i’m at work, so no,’ hurriedly trying to finish the stock you had so you had an excuse to rush out the back and away from him.

he was fortunate that it was a quiet monday, the store full of mostly older ladies who had no idea who he was. you sorta hoped that he’d get mobbed and would have to hurry off and leave you alone.

‘why jason? out of literally everyone else in this shithole you choose jason?’ screwing his face up in disgust.

you slam the box cutter down with a loud clatter, causing a few turned heads and raised eyebrows. fuck ‘em. if you had done what you’d really wanted to do, you’d be locked up forever.

‘i don’t know if you remember this but my boyfriend of like, two years ran away and never came home so yeah.. that kinda fucked with me a little and lucky for me, jason carver was there and also hated my ex’s guts.. so it was perfect, you know?’ staring flatly at him, you were not dealing with his shit today.

eddie scoffs, ‘so you had a kid with him? and now.. what? you play happy families just to spite me? is that it?’

‘yes eddie, i had a whole child just to piss you off.’

he gawps back at you, clearly also did not possess the ability to sense sarcasm.

‘no,’ scowling at him, ‘it was an accident and now he’s.. i dunno, coaching basketball at some school in ohio or some shit.. why don’t you go and bother him?’

‘so you’re not together?’

you can only roll your eyes in response, in sheer disbelief that he’d made such a fuss because he couldn’t just outright ask if you were single.

un-fucking-believable.

you’ve had just about enough of this conversation, pulling your little trolley back towards the swing doors that lead to the warehouse. at least he wasn’t allowed in there.

‘wait! wait..’ he grabs onto the other side of the trolley, stopping you from walking off, ‘have dinner with me tonight or.. tomorrow?’ eyes big and pleading.

‘now why would i do that?’

‘because i want to explain myself.. i need to.’

one of the younger shoppers notices who he is and begins trying to talk to him, coming over to where you two stood rather excitedly. eddie is kind enough to smile and give her a few polite words, eyes still latched onto yours despite the ecstatic woman beside him.

‘okay,’ honestly just wanting to get away from all this commotion, ‘tomorrow.’

his scowl subsides, replaced by a gleaming grin, ‘six o’clock.. pino’s, i’ll sort it, okay?’ already starting to walk away from the crazy woman.

‘right,’ you nod, pulling your trolley away and into the back warehouse, leaning against the concrete wall. the whole exchange was tiring, knocking whatever tiny bit of energy out of you.

were you actually gonna go?

absolutely fucking not.

-

by the time six rolls around the next night, you really had forgotten all about it. rushing to get ella her dinner after swimming lessons, already worrying about paying for yet another field trip she’d sprung on you earlier. you’d begun to wonder if they even taught in the classrooms anymore with the amount of permission slips she brought home.

she’s finally settled into bed, after much protesting and a lot of coaxing. you’re just about to finally relax on the couch when someone hammers on your front door. and if you weren’t already pissed off with ella’s whining, you were most definitely about to be with whichever mindless prick was banging on your door.

‘what do you want?’ you hiss, jerking the door open to reveal a pathetic looking eddie on the other side, face forlorn and dejected.

he’s in that white shirt again. it makes you sick to your stomach to admit that it really does look good on him. his arms now more defined, the cotton sticking to his muscles, briefly showcasing the new tattoos underneath. maybe he’d actually got off of his ass and did something other than smoke weed all day.

‘oh so you are alive, d’you forget about something?’ he’s snarling now, having conjured up some elaborate excuse in his head as to why you hadn’t showed, only to find you at home, seemingly with no care in the world.

‘oops,’ the corners of your mouth twitching into a smile, you hadn’t even actually meant to stand him up, you were just gonna call his hotel and cancel but the thought had just completely slipped your mind.

and even if it shouldn’t, it really did feel good. knowing he was the one sat waiting for you for once.

‘oops? i sat there for an hour waiting for you and then spent the last hour trying to convince dustin to give me your fucking address.. and all you can say is oops?’

you shrug, ‘feels pretty shitty to be forgotten about, doesn’t it?’ tilting your head, watching as his face falls. he’d been got.

‘okay.. okay, i get it, and i’m sorry.. there’s not a day that goes by that i don’t feel like shit for how i treated you,’ his head dips low, looking particularly sorry for himself.

and for a second you do too. not that he deserved it. quickly having to remind yourself exactly what he had done to you, which was not at all helped by the fact that he now had everything he’d ever wanted in life.

and you couldn’t fault your life. truly. but fuck did it sting sometimes, to know that your life had stagnated, stuck in the same shitty town you’d grown up in while he was on the other side of the country, more money than sense and a hoard of doting fans that would do absolutely anything he’d ask of them.

‘good,’ you bark, going to slam the door shut only for it to bang against his black boot wedged in the door, ‘if you don’t move your foot i’ll- i’ll call the police.’

‘no you won’t,’ his hand reaches out to grab onto the other side of the handle, he could’ve easily pushed his way in if he’d really wanted, ‘let’s talk.. like adults,’ begging you now, ‘please.’

you huff, this would end with you either letting him in or being forced to wake ella after you bashed his head into the doorframe. it was easier to just accept the first option and you’d find some bullshit to get him to leave later on.

opening the door wider to let him in, keeping your eyes square on the ground as he walks through, peering around at your home. probably comparing it to his mansion in the hollywood hills the pretentious fuck.

‘nice..’ he nods, leaning in to look at the photo of you and ella a few christmas’ ago, she was tiny then, sporting a miniature santa hat.

‘yeah well, she’s asleep upstairs so.. make it quick,’ you frown, closing the door behind him, watching as his eyes take in the cluttered room, smile fading when he catches sight of the singular picture you have up of jason and ella.

‘i can’t believe you chose to fuck jason of all people.. i mean, i’ve made some shitty decisions in my life but..’ he stops himself from going any further when he sees your face, if looks could kill, he’d be long gone by now.

‘did you come here for a reason? or are you here to talk about my life decisions.. because i really don’t want to hear it from you,’ crossing your arms over your chest, wanting him out of your house.

‘no.. no, shit- i’m sorry,’ he shuffles on his feet, banging his head, ‘i wanna talk.. properly.’

you roll your hand to motion for him to continue, ‘go on..’

he inhales, chewing on the inside of his cheek, trying to psyche himself up to actually say what he wanted to say. it wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say, he just couldn’t string it together to make sense.

‘i’m sorry for the way i treated you.. it wasn’t right and i know that now,’ his hand coming to rub the back of his clammy next, why was your house so fucking hot?

‘okay.. apology accepted, was that everything?’ you say flatly, glancing up the stairs to make sure ella wasn’t awake and out of her room.

his face falls, ‘can you just.. just let me explain,’ his adam apple bobbing as he swallows, ‘why don’t you sit down..’ motioning towards your ratty couch.

you relent your stern stature, hesitantly going to sit on the couch, trying to ensure that he couldn’t possibly sit next to you by sprawling your legs out onto the empty cushion. so he takes the seat furthest away, running his hands down his tight jeans. designer, no less.. the only person you knew stupid enough to spend thousands on designer jeans just to tear holes in them.

‘when i ended things with you, i wasn’t.. well, it was me, but i had my manager screaming in my ear that it’d never work and he could hook me up with some fuckin’ model.. it’d help the band.. so that’s what i did,’ and for once, he looked genuinely remorseful, fiddling with the loose threads on his expensive jeans.

‘so you sold out? that’s your excuse?’

his head shoots up, mouth hung open with absolute disgust all over his face, ‘i am not a sell out.’

which is incredibly refutable, you’d heard a snippet of one of their recent songs on the radio at work and it had sounded exactly like the commercial shit he used to rag on when you were together. not a touch on the corroded coffin you sat and watched practice for hours on end.

‘oh? so you didn’t break up with me to further your career? you just wanted to fuck hot models? which one is it ‘cause i’m a little confused here,’ completely losing it, springing up from your slouched position.

‘okay, yeah.. yeah i did, i broke up with you because i wanted to fuckin’ make something of my life.. and look at where i am and look at-,’

‘-don’t you dare finish that sentence,’ you snap, gritting your teeth together as you near his face, positively shaking with rage.

‘what’re you gonna do? you gonna hit me? do it,’ his chin tilted to match your elevated position, eyes glued to yours.

‘i should.’

his lips twitch into a smirk, ‘you won’t.’

and before your brain has the time to really process your next movements, he balls his fist into your t-shirt, causing your chest to collide into his as his lips smash into yours, knocking the air out of your lungs.

scrambling to find his shoulders for balance, sliding one hand onto his stubbly cheek. it’s all teeth and tongues, he’s ravenous and unrelenting, letting go of his grip on your shirt to place his hands on your hips, ‘move,’ mumbling against your lips as he attempts to manoeuvre you onto his lap while twisting around.

he slides down the couch, keeping a solid hold of your body as you find the right position. your legs are either side of his waist, sliding into the gap between his body and the couch sitting right on his crotch. wasting absolutely zero time in connecting your lips against, honestly not wanting to run the risk of him opening his mouth and ruining this.

his large hands find solace on your ass, creeping up to remove the oversized shirt you’d thrown on. you place your hand above his, restricting him from moving any further. it’s not that you were embarrassed- okay, maybe you were a little. but your body had changed since becoming a mom and eddie had become accustomed to gorgeous models and perfect women that he’d certainly not want to see your boring, frumpy mom body.

he groans in protest, trying again to lift the shirt further only for your fingernails to dig into his hand, ‘no,’ speaking into the filthy kiss.

eddie pulls away from the kiss, fingers coming to gently brush the hair from your face, ‘you can’t be serious? i’ve seen it all before,’ he grumbles, fingers itching to try lift it again.

‘not like this you haven’t.. i just.. want it on, okay?’

‘no- why won’t you let me take this off?’ fingers curling around the hem, already trying his luck with getting it up again.

you sigh, meeting his blown out eyes with your glossy ones, ‘i don’t even know what i’m doing.. fuck,’ attempting to climb off of his lap while the spare hand he has on your ass clamps you down, keeping you pressed to him.

‘hey.. hey, keep it on.. i don’t care,’ already trying to chase your lips, ‘i’m just saying, you don’t need to,’ the denim covering his growing erection starting to rub against your throbbing clit, the sparse material of your pajama shorts were not leaving much to the imagination.

‘jesus christ, just take it off,’ giving up in your protest, it was useless against eddie’s persistence.

you press your lips to his the second your shirt is off, there was no time to judge your body if he couldn’t see it. pulling at his jacket to get it off, the metal buttons digging into your now bare skin.

‘i didn’t.. i didn’t mean.. what i said..’ babbling through the kiss as he shimmies out of the jacket, landing on the floor with a soft thud.

‘shut up,’ you whine, running your hand along the length of his chest until you reach the hem of his black shirt, gripping your fingers around the fabric and lifting it slightly, exposing his midriff, the soft trail of hair ascending the skin.

his head jerks backwards, allowing you to tug the shirt off, finally allowing his eyes to wander to your chest. ‘holy shit,’ he remarks like he’d never seen a pair of tits before. it’s futile for him to pretend that he hadn’t seen some amazing boobs in his time so you scoff, rolling your eyes.

working your hand at his belt buckle, fiddling with the metal until it pops undone. he’s hard already and it makes you groan, brushing your hand over the raised denim. this week seriously must’ve been difficult if he was getting hard so easily over you.

it doesn’t ever occur to you how much of a mistake this was. and even if it did, you didn’t have much time to ponder on it as his hands are grabbing at your breasts, palming them as his lips suck at your jaw and down onto your neck softly. guaranteed to leave a lovely violet mark that the old ladies at work would certainly gasp at.

he’s helping you with his jeans, one hand gripping onto your waist to keep you steady as he lifts his hips from the couch and the other hurriedly yanking them down just enough to reveal his boxers. that’s the next port of call, fingers grabbing at the thin black cotton, pulling them down his thighs as his cock springs into action.

eddie’s lips are still on your neck while you mindlessly wrap your hand around his cock, pumping your fist as you shuffle upwards. his breath hitches in his throat, still peppering sloppy kisses to the sensitive skin.

‘oh god,’ he whines into your collarbone, feeling his eyelashes flutter against your jaw. for a man who had been painted as womaniser in the media, he sure was still just as pathetic as he used to be underneath you.

you’re a little annoyed that it’s you who’s taking control right now. after so many years of disrespect from his end, you think he at least owed it to you to take charge.

your hand grabs onto his shoulder, pulling his face from your neck, ‘be quiet, okay?’ sitting taller to position yourself comfortably, the harsh fabric of the couch grazing your knees.

he nods, sliding his hand up your waist and back to your hip, taking in the sight of you. you wouldn’t ever admit it aloud, but truthfully, you really did miss him sometimes. missed the way his pretty pink lips looked after being glued to yours or the way he gazed at you doing the most mundane tasks.

you cant your hips, sinking down onto his length slowly, biting down onto your bottom lip as his cock fills you to the hilt. his eyelids flicker, fingernails digging into your doughy hips. it’s been a little while since you’d done this so you have to take a second to become accustomed to the slight stretch. it’s good, in the most masochistic way.

your hands cling onto his shoulders, watching his slack jaw, tiny breaths escaping from his mouth as you attempt to move. painstakingly slow at first, knees beginning to shake as you try to remember what you should even be doing. your cheeks flushing, feeling so incredibly embarrassed. the man was fucking models and then you’re here, pitifully trying to ride him. it’s awful, you know it’s awful.

his arm comes to snake around your waist, taking matters into his own hands and flipping the two of you around, your back suddenly pressed into the couch. holy shit. you appreciate the initiative, wrapping your legs around his waist, readjusting your grip on his shoulders.

‘need you a little faster than that darling,’ large hands digging into the couch either side of your head. you’d feel utterly mortified if you weren’t thoroughly enjoying the sight of him looming over you, his hair falling beautifully into your face.

eddie starts slow at first, moving his hips slowly, obviously well versed. your mouth opens but no noise escapes, well aware that you weren’t the only ones in your house. instead you pant softly, desperate for his lips to grace yours again.

it’s not long before he’s quickening his pace, unable to contain himself when you feel so perfect around him. ‘i missed you- fuck, i’ve missed you so much,’ he groans, keeping his voice low despite wanting to start screaming.

you don’t reply, too fucked-out to even think about words. eyes drooping as his cock nudges against the soft spongy spot no one other than him had been able to reach.

the couch creaks beneath you, the old thing unable to keep up with his rutting hips, the top of your head knocking into the arm rest every time his hips collided with yours. your living room had never bore witness to such filth and as quiet as you were trying to be, the sounds are indistinguishable.

having to bite down onto your lip when his thumb meets your clit, legs tightening around his waist with every soft circle he draws around the sensitive bud. eddie was never bad in bed but holy shit, maybe money had done something right for him.

he sits up, soft sighs falling out of his lips as his hand disconnects from your clit, sliding toward your knee and positioning your leg onto his shoulder. your nails press into his forearm, willing yourself to stay quiet even now he’s seemingly trying to kill you.

and through it all, he’s smirking. relishing the way you’re writhing around, trying not to cum when he nudges against that sweet, spongy spot this position allowed.

his thumb finds your clit again, ‘holy shit sweetheart.. you gonna cum?’ grunting softly with every thrust.

you’re positively wrecked beneath him, face pressed into the couch cushion as your stomach flips. panting into the fabric, incoherent ramblings of eddie’s name and a bunch of curse words fill the room.

‘cum for me baby.. shit,’ struggling to keep his own pace as you tighten around him, leg trembling around his neck as your orgasm takes over. pleasure overtaking your limbs as your hips buck instinctively, thankfully muffled by the couch.

‘oh my god,’ you breathe, struggling to see straight when your eyes eventually reopen, gazing up at eddie above, certain he’s about to draw blood from his teeth digging in to his lip.

‘where.. where shall i- shit,’ he squeezes out, feeling his hips begin to stutter, eyes rolling to the back of his head. he’s just about quick enough to pull out, thick ropes of cum paint your thighs. narrowly avoiding the couch.

if you had the energy to get annoyed, you would’ve snapped, but in all honesty, your brain was still reeling and anger was the last thing you felt.

eddie reaches over, ever the gentleman and grabs his shirt to clean his mess. didn’t matter to him obviously, he had more than enough money to buy another.

and there it is. the bitterness filling your body again the second he’s no longer on top of you, or inside of you rather. you attempt to bite it down.

‘you wanna talk now?’ he asks, pulling his boxers back up to a more respectable position.

‘i’m tired eddie,’ and you are, on a school night like tonight you’d have been fast asleep by now.

he sighs, shoulders slumping over. even after you’d just had the most mind-altering sex, you couldn’t speak to him. ‘please,’ pleading with you almost, desperate for one more chance.

maybe it’s the exhaustion or maybe the dopamine still pumping through your brain but you concede, pulling your shirt back over your head before motioning for him to speak.

‘i don’t have any excuses, i’m just-,’ he sighs, turning on the couch to face you fully, ‘i’m sorry for hurting you, i was wrong and i know that,’ his eyes are dipped, peering at you from underneath his spindly lashes, ‘why d’you think i’ve avoided this place for so long?’

‘i don’t know? because you’re a pussy? because you’re too scared to face me?’ letting the words rattle off your tongue without much thought.

‘because i’m embarrassed,’ he corrects, without much offence, ‘because i’m ashamed and feel like i owe you more than some dick and a shitty apology.. i just didn’t know how i could ever make it up to you,’ half-moon eyes glossy in the low light.

your heart thumps in your chest, blood echoing through your ears. eddie munson, world renowned rockstar was sat on your couch, apologising for something you should’ve forgotten about a long time ago.

the years of hatred and avoidance come tumbling down in a millisecond. all you’d ever wanted was to hear him say sorry. to admit that he’d fucked you over for a life of fame and now you had it, you weren’t exactly sure what to even do with it.

‘okay.. now what? are you gonna make it up to me? because i want to believe you eddie, i do.. but you can’t just traipse in here and expect me to forgive you like that,’ the tears roll over, sliding down your warm cheeks.

he nods, grabbing onto your hands in a last ditch gesture to show his sincerity, ‘i’m going to.. i-i want to,’ he’s still nodding, bringing his face closer to yours, ‘tell me how, i’ll do anything,’ adam’s apple bobbing with every word.

‘stay here,’ your eyes are trained on him, ignoring the blurred vision, ‘not forever, just for now,’ lips pursed, ready to be broken once more.

you half-expect him to come out with some sorry excuse, tell you he had to get back to his hotel so he couldn’t possible stay here.

but he doesn’t.

eddie takes your hand, tugging it gently and with words you don’t register, babbles something about bed. so you follow him, allowing him to guide you to your room and slide in between the sheets next to you.

everything is so gentle, soft and pure. something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

-

‘hey.. sweetheart,’ eddie’s hand gently shakes your arm, whispering into your ear, ‘you awake?’

you squint in the dim light, feeling his hand descend onto your waist, chest pressed against your back, ‘i am now,’ you grumble, it was early.. early even by ella’s standards.

‘i gotta go.. you got work today?’ he asks, making no effort to actually get up and leave your bed though.

you nod into the pillow, rubbing your sleep heavy eyes. in your sleep hazed state, you shuffle, moving backwards against him.

‘okay.. shit- don’t do that,’ strained as you shift against him, unknowingly brushing against his cock, ‘i’ll be back.. after you..’ he’s losing it a little now, ‘after you finish..’ lips pressed to your ear.

you were moving deliberately now, just ever-so-slightly rocking your hips back and forth, you could feel him growing against your ass.

‘i can’t..’ he groans, grip tightening on your hip,

‘please,’ you breathe, reaching backwards to find his mop of curls, taking a fistful for leverage as his own hip’s thrust into your backside, his low growls only spurring you on.

you had been on your own for so long now, could he really blame you?

eddie doesn’t leave for another hour, creeping out of your house with his head low and a shit eating grin plastered on his face.

-

the key turns in your door as you’re loading the dishwasher. you’d given steve a spare for emergencies but it seemed to get used for anything but.

he slinks into the kitchen where you stand with your back to him, ‘hey,’ already knowing who it was.

‘well hello,’ announcing his presence, something about his tone of voice already seemed off, he sounded short, annoyed almost, ‘how have you been?’

‘i’m good..’ you spin to face him, puzzled by his strange demeanour, ‘how are you?’

he’s holding onto something behind his back but you can’t quite catch a glimpse, ‘actually.. i’m a little pissed off,’ you can tell he’s not completely serious by the hint of a smile on his face.

‘hmm? why’s that?’

he looks around the room expectedly, ‘oh i don’t know.. you don’t have anything to tell me, do you?’ shaking his head, still gripping onto this mystery object.

‘no..’ narrowing your eyes, determining whether he knew what you thought he knew.

he did, he one hundred percent did. holy fuck. he’d figured you out already. eddie had opened his big, stupid mouth and told dustin, who would’ve told steve and god knows who else. fucking moron.

‘no? soo..’ his pulls the magazine from behind his back, flipping it to the page he’d already saved, ‘this isn’t real then?’ shoving the glossy pages into your face, ‘because to me.. this looks an awful lot like eddie.. at this very house,’ he jabs his finger at the pixelated image, ‘and this little blob here.. that’s you, no?’

you’re utterly gobsmacked. mouth hung open in pure shock. because that most definitely was eddie.. and your house.. and you. you hadn’t seen anyone with a camera, hell, you hadn’t seen anyone on the street at all.

‘and correct me if i’m wrong, but is this not our friend eddie leaving your house the next morning?’ showing the next image of him leaving your house the day after, hair unruly and messed up, holding his denim jacket in his arms as he climbs into his car.

your mouth moves but no words come out, croaking as you struggle to meet steve’s eyes. completely speechless, there was no feasible excuse. you had been caught with your pants down. literally.

‘i can explain,’ waving your hands around while steve stands smug against the kitchen counter. ‘..no i can’t,’ shoulders slumped as you blink at your best friend, no you really couldn’t. suppose you could’ve come up with some lie about a look-a-like you’d been seeing but that would’ve made you look particularly strange.

‘were you ever gonna tell me?’ he’s almost hurt that you hadn’t ran to him to tell him immediately. this was true best friend gossip and you’d kept him from it.

‘i was! steve.. i don’t even know what happened- he came over to apologise and then we were arguing and then.. then we had sex and it’s not my fault..’ you’re trying, and failing, to contain your smile, flashing your cheeky grin to your best friend in the hopes he would let this slide.

‘i can’t believe you didn’t tell me!’ jutting his bottom lip out, ‘so, you’re getting back together?’ his eyes sceptical yet sparkling with a sense of hope. you’re grateful that all he seems to care about is the fact you lied. or actually, withheld the truth as you preferred it.

‘no.. well.. no, we had dinner together yesterday and he might’ve stayed over but no..’ shaking your head, ‘he’s leaving again soon and we both know what happened last time..’ you shrug, leaning back against the counter, ‘i guess i don’t hate him now, that’s good isn’t it?’

steve looks perplexed, ‘wait wait wait.. so you’re just.. screwing around? and then he leaves again, that’s it? what’s the point?’ taking a seat at the small kitchen table, fully engrossed in the conversation.

‘i dunno.. i guess that’s it?’ you hadn’t really thought about the fact that he’d be leaving again, in fact, you hadn’t really had time to think much at all about what was happening.

you’d just sort of acknowledged that at some point he’d go back to california and you’d stay here and whatever was happening would.. end? it wasn’t as if you were going to be super upset about it like you once were. lots of people fuck their ex’s.. this was fine.

because that’s what this is, right?

just sex with an ex?

‘that’s it?’ steve reiterates, looking completely flabbergasted that the woman who once left the room whenever eddie munson’s name was mentioned was now being so casual about this.

‘yeah,’ you shrug, not wanting to make a massive deal out of it though you could always rely on steve to be over dramatic on your behalf.

‘no,’ he straightens up in the chair, ‘all of this can’t be for nothing,’ sounding utterly exasperated, ‘you two obviously belong together so why don’t you go for it? i could see you living it up out in la.. big house, big car-,’

you cut him off before he can divulge into his delusions any further, ‘i think you’re getting ahead of yourself steve,’ shaking your head at his ludicrous attitude.

you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it once or twice but it seemed silly to start imagining this crazy life together after all these years. he’d barely just made it into your good graces again, you were hardly going to run off to california with him. it was utter delusion.

‘okay okay..’ he scoffs, ‘but i still think you need to talk to him. i don’t want you getting hurt again, okay? just make sure that you’re both on the same page,’ nodding as he stands from his seat and begins to rummage through your cupboards for something to eat.

he was probably right and you knew it deep down. you weren’t keen on being the one to bring the conversation up, not after that first night. after you had sobbed in his arms in bed, letting him soothe you to sleep with a bunch of probable empty promises.

-

when eddie lets himself into your house a few hours later, steve’s eyebrows fly up his forehead but he doesn’t say a word. instead, he nods at the man, keeping his opinions to himself.

the pair of you resemble an old married couple, except you’re the grumpy old man with your wife cuddled into your side. your wife being steve that is.

‘oh.. is this uh, something that happens often?’ eddie asks, settling into the empty chair across from you. slightly miffed that steve was nestled into your side.

‘yup,’ you nod, smiling at him your chin resting on steve’s head. he hadn’t a reason to be jealous, you’d really rather poke your eyeballs out with a fork than do anything remotely sexual with steve.

‘right.. yeah okay,’ eddie says, looking perplexed but sitting back in the chair. if he was going to stick around then this would have to be something that he got used to. because you sure as hell weren’t going to stop being so close with steve for the guy that broke your heart at eighteen.

‘you want a drink?’ you ask, realising that you should probably be a good host even if it was only eddie.

‘yeah sure.’

you untangle yourself from steve and trundle off into the kitchen. steve takes this as the perfect opportunity to grill eddie on his intentions, sitting up straight and making sure that you were really gone before beginning his interrogation.

‘so.. you two?’

eddie shrugs, not wanting to get into it with steve after such a long day.

steve sighs, leaning toward eddie, ‘i’m gonna say this once.. but if you hurt her again, i will kill you,’ staring the other man down. contempt in his eyes. he was dead serious too.

‘i’m not- i’m not gonna hurt her,’ eddie sits up, praying that you’d hurry back with this damn drink.

‘i mean it eddie,’ raising his eyebrows, ‘you didn’t see how she was after you left.. i’m not going through that again, i’m not letting her go through that again.’

‘steve-,’ eddie blinks, stopping himself as you re-enter the room. hoping that you hadn’t heard their conversation, he’d only just got you to stop hating him. he wasn’t prepared to go back to that like, ever.

‘what’re you talking about?’ placing the bottle of beer in front of eddie and collapsing back into your spot on the couch.

‘football,’ steve answers quickly, groaning as he pushes himself off of the sofa, ‘i’m gonna head home, got work in the morning but i’ll see you tomorrow,’ he smiles, winking at you from above.

‘okay,’ you utter, sounding more like a question than a statement, watching carefully as he gathers his things without so much as a glance at eddie. you can only imagine what was actually said but that was truly none of your business.

you’d just grill eddie later to make sure steve hasn’t been too much of an asshole.

‘byee,’ you call out behind him, already eyeing a sheepish eddie. this’d probably be it. you’d known it was coming at some point, you just weren’t sure of when.

if steve’s sudden departure was anything to go off, you were probably right.

the door clicks shut and you turn your attention to eddie who was still sat on the solemn chair. oh god. maybe you had got a little used to having him around again and now to know that it’d all be coming to an abrupt end once again.. yeah you felt a tad shit.

‘what’d you say?’ you ask outright, it made zero sense to beat around the bush.

‘me?’ he looks almost offended, ‘i didn’t say shit.. didn’t get the chance to,’ but he’s smiling ever so slightly and your heart relaxes.

christ you were so stupid. letting him back into your life just to let him walk away a second time. perhaps you’d done something horrific in a past life to deserve this same fate twice.

‘so what did he say?’ you press, unsure of if your even wanted the answer.

eddie sighs before coming to collapse on the couch next to you, ‘it wasn’t important.. look, i wanna be honest with you,’ his hand comes to grab yours and you freeze, bracing yourself for what was inevitably going to come next. ‘you mean a lot to me and.. and i don’t want you to think that i don’t care or that i’m just leaving you again,’ his eyes are focussed on yours, full of what you hope is sincerity.

you don’t reply, instead you nod slightly and urge him to continue. this was it. the kicker. 

‘i’ve gotta go back to la next week,’ his grip tightens around your hand, ‘but i’m coming back as soon as i can, okay?’ he’s serious too and you’d like to believe him but if the past was anything to go by, you weren’t eager.

you nod silently. fuck this. once again, you were sat before eddie munson, listening to his plans to jet off to la. it felt like the cruelest case of deja-vu. if anything, you want to kick yourself for even allowing him to wiggle his way back into your heart. most people know better after the first time.

‘it’s three weeks.. maybe a month, but i’m coming back, i promise,’ he pleads, hanging his head low. he knows there’s absolutely nothing he could say to you that would make you believe him but he had to try.

you hum, frowning just a little before finally replying, ‘i’ve heard that before,’ not meaning to sound as snarky as you did, but it was true.

‘i’m serious, i’m not.. not gonna lose you again, i’ve learnt my lesson,’ his eyes are big and pleading and you’re thrown right back to being eighteen, listening to him convince you how going to la would be the best decision.

‘so.. what? you’re gonna come back to hawkins just to see me? i don’t-,’ you sigh, as much as you wanted to believe him, it just wasn’t plausible in your mind, ‘i just don’t understand, are we together or are you just coming back to fuck? you don’t have to, you know? i’ve made peace with it all and i’m fine.. you don’t have to lie to me anymore.’

if anyone was going to fuck this up, it would be you. that’s for certain.

‘what the fuck?’ he exclaims, genuinely flabbergasted, ‘this is me telling you that i’m serious about this.. about you,’ he takes your hand into his properly, scooting around to face you fully, ‘i love being here with you, and ella and there is nothing out in la worth more than this,’ you think he might just start crying, or you might. or perhaps both of you.

you sniff, not wanting to speak in fear of bursting into hysterics. it was all just so confusing and weird. you’d grown accustomed to eddie being on the other side of the country and now suddenly he was back in your life with what seemed like a a declaration of love. it was just too much to handle. and maybe you blame yourself a little, for not truly thinking about the implications of fucking your ex that had abandoned you years prior. but now it all just seemed to be hurtling in the most intense direction.

you were the one that had told him to stay after all. because really, you could’ve kicked him out, refused to ever even acknowledge him again. but you hadn’t.

‘are you telling me the truth?’ is all that you manage to squeak out. baring resemblance to a small child.

you really must’ve looked pathetic, eyes brimming with tears, bottom lip quivering as you hold in the implosion of emotions. it’s always scary being vulnerable with someone, let alone someone that once meant so much to you.

he still did. as much as you’re absolutely petrified to admit it, he’d weaselled his way back into your heart and now here you are, a mess of emotions and perplexing feelings that are too complicated to handle.

‘i promise you,’ he sighs, clearly fed up of your whining, ‘i’m coming back this time.’

and maybe you’re stupid. maybe you’re still hung up on some high school relationship that ended long ago but you can’t help it, you nod.

idiotically believing him because what else can you do after letting him into your home and your heart again.

[unsoundedcomic]

Whumptober 2024 - 23 - “Forced Choice”

((First part here))

When first the Lady whispered to me of a cache of forgotten wisdom hidden in the heart of Mmatont Anchert, the image of a library had blossomed in my mind's eye: dusty parchments, fat worm-eaten tomes, crumbling scrolls crowding each other for space on warped and collapsing shelves.

What I had not envisioned was what Rahm and I found when our gruff guide opened the Living Wood door.

A breeze colder than ice assailed us from a chamber of unbroken blackness. I could see no ceiling and see no walls; only a rectangle of floor smeared golden before our feet by the light of the Soud's torch. I stepped into it. My boots crunched over the fragile granules of ancient insect carapaces and layers and layers of… bird droppings?

The door closed behind us suddenly - very theatrical, pissmop! - and Rahm and I were in the dark.

"A moment, a moment," he muttered. I imagined him smacking his lighter against the heel of his hand and yes, it cracked suddenly to life with a muted blue burst. Despite the chill, Rahm's face was shiny with sweat, eyes wide, nostrils flared. I imagine my expression was similar, though more handsome of course.

"It stinks like Juste," I whispered.

"Birds."

Aye. Birds. I hooked his elbow with my own and we moved deeper into the room. Rahm thrust the wee pymaric light before us, but it made few inroads through the ink: no walls, no structural planes to catch the glow and reveal themselves; only an empty void where we had expected so much.

"I hope that boy is all right," Rahm said suddenly. I yelped a nervous laugh - I could not help it! - and he tensed against my arm.

"You know they have killed him. Let it go. He was nothing to us. Perhaps he touched children or worse! Licked his fingers at the supper table! Put your mind on why we've come."

My arm was colder and the room a bit blacker when he pulled away from me. "You're an asshole, Bastion. I know where your mind is."

"My mind is fixed firmly upon obtaining the algorhythms needed to chase the pieces of the scattered human soul, I have never hidden this-"

"In order to bring your sister back!" Rahm sounded triumphant, as though he was exposing to the light some long hidden and grimy secret. I always did love my self-righteous friend. And so I hated to scoff at him, but I cannot control my ego when it is in control. Which is often. Daily. Hourly.

"I had to pick SOME deceased subject, Rahm. She is as good as any other. I knew her well, I can identify whatever mind that reconstitutes as either belonging to her, or evidencing too aberrently. Should I have chosen that lovely young soprano who threw herself off the Spire last year, bashing her pretty brains out all over Rue Jonovan? I didn't even know her favourite colour."

Rahm's lips worried over his teeth with unvoiced emotion. I frankly did not give a whore's fart whether he believed me or not. I continued: "You? Your mind? You are after the resurrection of your dead son. And not for the good of us all, not to overcome the gods' crime, not to raise us from the muck that mortality condems us to; you wish it to apologise to your wife and to mend your cracked heart. Well, I think that is a WASTE - a disgraceful WASTE of a spellwright's intellect and a great man's mind!"

A strange expression passed over Rahm's face. For a moment I was fearful he would weep. But that was not quite right. It was sorrow yes, but… why, if I hadn't known better, I would have thought it was sorrow for ME.

What a fool that Rahm Ripa.

"What is here!" he suddenly challenged the emptiness, and wheeled away. He spun about, blue light feebly punching at the black, dust motes wildly bobbing. I saw a single small feather catch, then vanish again. "We were told of this place by Lady Ilganyag, Eldest of the Old! Who heard the First Words spoken and saw the Arbiter Khert take hold!"

No response.

"Try it in Tainish," I suggested. Rahm glowered deeper. Understandble. Dreadful bother to translate and localize verse, you always lose something. One really must learn Continental to enjoy the written works of Gari Fiat at all.

"Look onto the khert," he bade me sharply.

"Ach, very well, but you watch my back while I am vulnerable." I felt the Lady stir in my thoughts but say nothing as I complied. With a steady inhalation, I imagined my breath sweeping the flesh and blood and baggage from my bones; my bones themselves crumbling like ash behind me as I stepped forward through myself, and opened my eyes to the khert-lines.

I stumbled. Rahm caught my arm. A fool, but a friend.

Cutting golden through the blackness, the khert-lines here were thick as hawsers, knotted and twisted around themselves, Aspects and ghosts both sluggishly pulsing through them as though as cold as we were. Phantoms fitfully fluttered in the far, far corners of the room, and still more spiraled against the ceiling far above, skittering blind ghost fingers for some khert-line to follow towards freedom. Feeling Rahm watching me, I dropped my gaze and squinted through the gilded slashes, leading him deeper in.

There. An undefined void against the golden glow of the khert, I saw a Shape. It was a well-known shape to any son of Juste and follower of the Lady. The lines skittered around it, unable to intersect, and the ghosts themselves seemed repulsed. I heard Rahm gasp. A familiar belch of panic gripped my midsection when I tried to return to my fleshly eyes and found them sluggish. Then I steeled myself and with a moment's concerted effort the khert was blinked away, the blackness was returned - burning with no after images, no scintillation of pupils dilating - and I was immediately able to see the blacker black that loomed before us.

Every filament of Silver throughout my body burned hot. The torc at my throat clenched enough to leave me breathless.

In crackling old Tainish, the great Agib asked: "What do these Humans desire."

Oh, what a creature! Imagine a great avian raptor as tall as two men, of ebon plumage and silver razor talons. Now stretch its neck out to thrice the length of its body, give it the beak of a crow, golden human sclera, and irises red as fresh blood.

Rahm gibbered a moment and grabbed his own collar. Then our torcs relaxed, leaving us panting in tandem. Distantly sexy. The bird cocked its head to the side, then level again, then back. It was looking at Rahm's wee lighter. It occurred to me that a creature such as this must not often see such devices. In fact this was a newer design out of the Fluirstadt workshops, using starfly lymph and mirrors, and likely completely revolutionary to such a Mmatont shut-in.

"Give that to Agib," croaked the bird.

Rahm moved to comply and I snatched at his arm. I swear to the dead gods these Crescians do not know how to negotiate.

"We are come for knowledge," I interjected, making the lighter my own. I crushed the shiny bargaining chip to my chest, afraid he'd snatch it. "Lady Ilganyag sent us. She-"

The agib exploded into movement! It drew up on its claws, extended its legs, and shook open its dusty wings! They reached to the ceiling, embers of red burning deep at the roots of the primary quills. "Not the Lady of this Agib!" I think it said. The words were so garbled, the vocabulary so archaic. "Not the Lady of this Agib!"

Inside my head, my own bird was still.

"She wants not a thing from you!" I called, "My compeer and I wish only discourse with a brother scholar, one that I recognise has a savvy appreciation for pymary and pymarics! We have more than this lighter; we have an entire collection with us - in our luggage - of the most modern devices in use today. More than I can say of these savages keeping you prisoner."

"Agib is no prisoner," said the bird. Indeed, I realised suddenly there were no chains on this creature. But what a black, sad room it had been crushed inside. How was this more than a cage of stone, the floor a morass of shit and feathery down-

Oh, shit. SHIT. It had been shitting. Eating. Senet beasts only eat to repair wounds.

"Great injury," the bird lamented, folding its wings. Looking closer, I saw gaps in its primaries, and grievous half-healed fissures in its breast and legs.

"You fought with something," Rahm guessed politely. The monster shifted. All its plumage puffed suddenly, throwing off dust and muck in a choking cloud. It shook, then settled, its down sinking and skirting over its fearsome First Silver talons. Red eyes swung between my face and Rahm's.

"What do these Humans desire?" it asked again, "Humans of Ilganyag. Agib will give you single thing. You will all your precious creations give. Give to Agib all your precious creations. Single thing will Agib give."

Doubt nibbled at me. I knew that these creatures had for all time been the keepers of pymary, for they were the keepers of Old Tainish, the first language of the world. They alone fluently spoke the first words, and had taught them to men when they had thought them ready. If there were secrets, these testy great squawkers would have them. Having had one nesting inside of me since I was a boy, few know them as well.

But this monster did not seem as… put together, as my Lady Ilganyag.

Rahm must have had similar thoughts for he asked: "Who are you, my Lord? How can Humans know what it is Agib… Agib has to give?" It was charming to hear the Crescian try to modulate his Tainish into the old cadence, and use the older words.

"Agib knows," it replied simply.

"Agib knows words," Rahm agreed, "And Agib… knows that words can be spoken to… mirror reality, or to conjure a reality that is not real."

The beast twitched and threw its head, frustrated with the pair of us. I think it had grown accustomed to its solitude. "Humans," it said, "Humans invented the thing that is lying. Ilganyag lines her nest with it! Agib do not lie. Agib love the garden, admire the garden, protect the garden; never is there cause to speak untrue words about the garden!"

"But how can we KNOW?"

The beast puffed its breast and throat again, weaving its long, long neck in a serpent pattern. Rahm extended mollifying hands, his rings flashing in the soft blue light. The sight of them captured the bird's wandering eye. I chuckled. Apparently it loved shinies just as much as my mistress.

Without looking away from the glinting jewellery, in hisses and croaks it recited: "The garden is the garden, paths and stones fixed. Motive and movements determined. The world is in this garden grown and for this garden meant. To change the garden is to KILL the world. Agib alone know how to plant, to prune; the tools are of the Agib and the Agib alone have the tools. To lie is a tool to shape humans; a lie cannot shape the garden. Human tongues never can twist the heart of the garden; only the hearts of humans."

"That was true once," I said, not caring for its arrogance, "But there is a reason Agib have become passing rare, isn't there? Humans have surpassed you and taken your tools-"

The Agib's terrible eyes flared. "AGIB COULD PRUNE YOU NOW, ILGANYAG HUMAN."

Incomprehensible pain opened my insides like a knife. The sun itself burst out of my entrails, up through stomach and esophagus, into my mouth and devoured my eyes, my sinuses, my brain in fire. I have no memory of how I came to be on the ground but then I was, all of reality shrinking away from me - I was in the dark, screaming.

When sensible again, I saw Rahm crouched protectively over me, shielding me, and the wee lighter was in the Agib's beak. All of my friend's rings were gone. Rahm's lips moved but I couldn't hear his words through my groaning, through the echoing pain.

How was I alive? Briefly, I did not wish to be.

Small red hands come from the beast's silver maw. They drew the lighter in, greedily in, clinking against the other jewellery already in its mouth. Then its bill shut, and we were all of us left in the dark. I sobbed like a child in Rahm's arms.

"He did not speak!" I wailed, "He did not speak!"

"What do these humans desire," asked the Agib a final time.

I desired nothing more in that moment than to flee from this room, from this structure, from this island, and away from this monster. It was nothing like Ilganyag. My Lady leads me on a merry dance, but I know the steps. I can sense her moods like a hound turning its snout to the wind. She hates me, but she loves me too. She feels the same about every one of us.

No similar ambivalence from this bird in the black. I knew it cursed us all, and would peck the eyes from a newborn's skull. It had, too. Somehow I knew that it had, countless times. It had been the God of the Soud Vaghal; one of the things on the mountain beneath whose shadow the primitive Tains had cowered and sacrificed.

"I want nothing," I whispered. I'd never said that before. I'd never meant it. I've not meant it since.

Rahm held me tightly as I shuddered, but he was not so defeated. I wonder now what thoughts were behind his eyes as he cast them through the lightless room and towards the unfathomable power of the Agib in the Dark. Did he think of Iori sobbing over their dead boy? The boy himself, dissolving into the khert like sands captured by the surf and pulled into the sea... I wanted to tell him that no answer this creature gave would be answer enough for any of it.

Rahm shifted softly against me and drew his shoulders back to speak. "I wish for us to fly," he said, "Humans cannot shape the garden, but to look down upon it as the Agib does, and behold its splendour, might inspire our tongues towards the same reverence as yours."

A long moment passed. Very faintly I could hear the muffled clinking of metal inside the bird's body, as its tiny hands turned its new treasures over and over. Then:

"A good trade."

---------

A few days later, Rahm and I were back in Tain. Our boat had landed in a little fishing town called Orniers, similar to Lurick and quite as dull. Still, our inn served a fine side of pork and I had ordered a bottle of Omid Red, stewed apples, and a wedge of that soft cheese they make in the west. Rahm swirled his pour in his slim brown fingers, naked now of their pymaric finery but no less elegant.

I'd felt sour and cross since returning. I had left the monster's room to be ill, but Rahm had stayed behind, conferring with the bird and watching it produce formulae of incredible complexity. Now he had a stack of notes and numbers written with impossible precision - they nearly looked pressed with type.

"Did it use its wee mouth hands?" I asked, piling cheese and pork on a slice of good rye, "Did his human moiety ever emerge?"

"I don't know," Rahm answered, expression distant, "It never rose the lights again and I was afraid it would change its mind if I reached for my second lighter. Sitting in the dark for hours, the great monster writing away, my best friend abandoned me for the toilet-- by the Lady, I've only been that afraid for that long a few times. He may have given me new direction for the flying machine, but he may have taken a fucking year off my life."

"Same," I admitted. Rahm narrowed his eyes at me.

"You have many more to spare."

"That is true and it is not my fault. I say if I do not begin taking Ilganyag's suggestions with more caution going forward, it may not matter. Sometimes I cannot tell if she is trying to get me killed, or merely to humble me. Try these apples, there is some rum in them."

My friend moved a few to his plate. He picked at them with little interest. "What does she say about all this?"

"She is amused," I sighed, "But largely silent. I think she and the Agib in the Dark have some history. She wishes me to instruct you to keep its existence a secret."

"I already promised it the same. Senets and their mysteries."

"Aye."

Night was falling. The fishermen had already docked and I could hear the shout and clamour of the lads unloading their catch. We'd stay one more night there, then hire a vliegeng to take us over the mountain in the morning. I thought again about that mountain; the sacred mountain from the top of which, it was said, all pymary had sprung. What had the Tains given the Agib for it? Surely more than light; more than rings.

"I thought you were after the same thing I was," I baited, pouring my friend a second glass.

"So did I."

"Lose your nerve? I say, men accosting senets for information on how to raise their loved ones must be the most tedious trope to them."

Rahm shook his head. "Didn't you listen to it? We can't shape the garden, Bastion. To attempt to… it would kill the world. Death is a part of it. There is no undoing it. But if I finish the flying machine, then… then there was a point to what happened. There was a reason."

He put the wine to his lips. He never said if he cared for the apples.

I'll be honest with you, my dear and patient readers: my friend's answer stuck in my throat like a stone. It sits there still, and galls me when I visit them; when Iori is fingering her gaudy ugly necklace sadly, and Rahm has red eyes after a late night in his workshop. To look for a reason is to look for your own madness. There is no purpose and no reason. We pattern-seeking rodents exhaust ourselves in pursuit of melody within this maelstrom, but there's only noise, and our ringing ears. There is no purpose and no reason, Rahm.

Yet I know he must live each day acting as if there is. That is the thin membrane of sanity we all tread upon so heavily but so carefully, trying not to snap through.

I love my friend Rahm Ripa.

But I will not be put off by the arrogance and tyranny of created things; things that have seen firsthand what the determination of the grown thing can accomplish. Do you remember it tucked away hiding in its own shit? Do you remember? Something brought to great ruin, that Agib in the Dark. Something rent its breast and broke its wings. Was it another senet? Or was it someone wielding our clever pymarics, and our constructed weaponry, and our determination to obtain the tools we need to shape the garden for ourselves?

I don't know for certain, reader; but I ask you to believe with me, sincerely and with your whole heart, that it was one of us.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

LET THEM FEAST

This piece was inspired by this Mickey Mouse cartoon as well as this early episode from Spongebob.

So tell me, do you wanna go?

The cafeteria doors parted, swinging open as any other door would—but to Fellow and Gidel, it was as if the gates to heaven were welcoming them. Humming chatter and the smells of delicious foods churned out from beyond. Deeply inhaling, tasting the aromas in the back of one’s throat, made their bodies light and floaty, as if hunger had made them weightless.

They followed a hoard of uniformed boys with trays, drifting to buffet stations loaded with dishes they could only dream of. Slabs of roast beef dripping with mushroom gravy, racks od lamb, game birds with crisped skin, fish glistening with herb butter, steaming stews with vegetables bobbing in a sea of rich broth, fluffy rice, cakes sliced wide and trifles stacked tall. The paper-thin slice of bread and beans they had for supper had never looked quite so sorry.

Gidel didn’t notice that his mouth was agape and slick with saliva until a cane tucked under his chin and closed it for him. Fellow pulled the young boy close, a hand on his arm as he wildly gestured to the waiting delicacies.

“Take a gander, Giddie! All that food’s free and ours for the taking!!” he chirped. “Ready your fork and knife, we’re going to eat like kings today!”

Arm in arm, the duo dove into the bar, grabbing as much as they reasonably could. Generous scoops of mashed potato, the biggest pieces of meat, plenty of sauce, the largest loaves. Gidel rushed about with an apple crammed into his mouth and Fellow snuck oyster crackers into his breast pocket (as a late-night snack).

While their plates piled higher and higher, the mob students grew more irritable. Elbowing them out of the way, snatching up popular itwms, and taking far more than their share had the tendency to invoke ire. The mobs casted dirty looks at Fellow and Gidel, others raising their voices at the kitchen.

“Oi, where’s the refill of tomato soup? I’ve been waitin’ for forever over here!”

“When’re the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggies gonna be done…”

“I’m so hungry I could eat a whole horse. What’s the damn hold up?!”

“Be patient, boys!” a ghost chef callee back. He grunted as he hailed a vat of curry off of the stove. “It takes time to prepare the food.”

“They’re ravenous today,” remarked the lead chef. “Wonder what’s going on. We normally don’t have to prepare this much.”

By this time, Fellow (trailed by Gidel) had pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He set down his tray (the tower of food upon it wobbling, threatening to collapse) and waved enthusiastically at the chefs.

“Afternoon, gents! How’s it going? Looks to me like you’re hard at work feeding all these wayward souls.”

“Oh, um. Just fine, thank you.” The head chef blinked. He liked to think that he recognized all of the students and staff that came into his dining room, but he was drawing a total blank with Fellow and Gidel. “Er… Sorry, are you new around here? I don’t think I’ve seen you boys before.”

“Fufu, that’s right. We’re new to these parts.”

“They ain’t even students,” an angry mob student behind him piped up.

The lead chef startled. Worry crumpled his round, marshamallowy face. “Oh dear, not students? The buffet is only open to them and staff.” He glanced at Fellow’s pickings. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to return all that.”

Anger and annoyance shot through the fox beastman. Tch…! Those NRC brats, looking down on me! Why should they get to gorge themselves on this stuff while the rest of us beg for their scraps?!

He reached down and gripped Gidel’s hand, giving the young boy a reassuring squeeze. Gidel offered a sleepy grin back.

Watch this. I’ll turn this entire situation around and have them eating out of the palm of my hand.

He let out a theatrical gasp, then summoned his most charming smile. “My bad, I forgot to introduce myself! You see, I am a health inspector sent by the Department of Magic Education to evaluate your menu! Gidel here’s my trusty assistant.”

The leader of the ghost chefs scratched his head. “Huh? Is that what a health inspector does…?”

“Of course, or cooourse! All a part of the job description, my friend.” Fellow indicated his absurd amount of food. “They’re looking to implement new standards for magic school menus—and where better to look at as a model for reference than THE famous Night Raven College? The education it offers is elite, so the meals it offers must be elite as well! That’s why they’ve sent us to try one of everything, to evaluate the quality of your wares.”

Gidel bobbed his head. (He had little clue what he was actually agreeing with, but he agreed nevertheless.)

“Come ON, you don’t seriously buy this crap, do you?” a mob student groaned. “The old fart’s clearly lying!!”

Other voices joined him, but they all fell upon deaf ears. The head chef’s eyes sparkled, his pasty white cheeks rosy with excitement.

“Oooooh, why didn’t you say so sooner?! W-We will absolutely do everything in our power to accommodate your needs, Sir Health Inspector!” He turned to his kitchen staff. “Isn’t this so exciting, everyone? We’ll be the first group of ghosts to receive a fancy accolade after death!”

A murmur of approval weaved through the kitchen. The dining room, however, erupted into a fresh round of protests.

“You’re joking!!”

“That’s such an obvious lie.”

“How can you believe that bullcrap?!”

Keheheh, never underestimate the power of this Fellow Honest-sama’s silver tongue 🎶 I didn’t even need to use my unique magic to cut to the front of the line. Some people are just born suckers and stay suckers in the afterlife.

He smirked, giving a triumphant twirl of his cane. “Sorry, folks! You snooze, you lose. We get first dibs on everything~”

“Hah?! What’d ya just say to me?” A vein bulged on a Savanaclaw student’s forehead. He was about double Fellow’s width and rippling with muscle. “Like hell you are!”

“The way you talk is pissin’ me off!!” chimed in a Diasomnia student. He drew his baton and aimed it at Fellow. “I oughta shut you up for good!”

The idea was a seed, taking root and festering among his peers. Other students were producing their own magical pens, out of pockets and from inside vests.

Fellow paled, balking but keeping himself between the mobs and Gidel. “H-Hey now, can’t we talk this over? Violence doesn’t solve everything, you know!”

“YES IT DOES,” the mobs retorted—in unison for once. Hungry and angry, a terrible combination.

Gidel whimpered. No sound, but Fellow could sense it in the way the boy retreated into his coat. A free hand found its way to the small of Gidel’s back, keeping him upright.

Don’t let them see you like that. Weak, downtrodden. It’s letting them have the moral victory.

His grin widened. He was a fox looking to sink his teeth into unsuspecting prey.

“Why spend your youth grumpy and causing trouble? You should lighten up, live a little, laugh a little. Here, I’ll show you how. Just follow me! Come on to the Theater!! Life is Fun!!”

Fellow spun his cane, releasing a light shower of sparkles upon the crowd. They floated down, popping like popping on their skin. Eyes glazed over, twisted expressions slackened.

“Now then!!” Fellow, raised his cane like a baton, still spinning as he conducted his herd. He, poised as the ringleader. “Right this way, right this way, gentlemen! Let’s have a lively parade to the courtyard on this fine day!”

“The weather is nice today…”

“Coach said I need to get more exercise in.”

“I’ve been stressed about classes, I need to take this break.”

Marching—one, two, one, two—Fellow led the procession out of the cafeteria. He belted out a tune as he ushered students through the exit.

“Hi-diddle-dee-dee, actor's life for me!”

(Gidel pranced in and out of the line of students, reaching into pockets and retrieving miscellaneous items. Pencils, a keychain, spare change. He stashed them under his hat.)

“A high silk hat and a silver cane, a watch of gold with a diamond chain!”

When the last student was gone, Fellow made a U-turn and rushed back into the cafeteria, slamming the doors behind him. He dropped his smile, letting it shatter like a porcelain teacup and not bothering to salvage the remains.

“Sheesh, they’re finally out of my fur!” Fellow sighed deeply. “Those rotten kids really had to make me work hard for my meal...”

Gidel scrambled over to him, pulling out the various items he had clumsily pilfered. Look what I got! he seemed to say.

Fellow brightened, ruffling the child’s messy brown mop. “Atta boy, Giddie! We sure showed those snooty rich kids what for, eh?”

At that moment, the head chef bursted out of the kitchen juggling a tray of apple strudel. He was followed by several other ghosts, each carrying a new dish.

“Sorry for the wait, here’s the… Huh?” The head chef glanced around the nearly empty cafeteria, his brows knitting. “Where did everybody go?”

“Must’ve gone out for a stroll Fine by me, they’re letting us get right down to business,” Fellow laughed, clapping a hand on Gidel’s shoulder. “C’mon, that’s enough excitement for one day. Let’s dig in!”

[too-antigonish]

My Strange but Unified Theory of Exeunt

Last week I talked about the poem Horatio in a post about Morse and fathers and @astridcontramundum asked what I thought it meant in the context of Exeunt. Hopefully she won't be sorry she asked because here's my (as usual) long answer:

Horatio is quoted from twice in Exeunt. The first time, Prof. Fortescue is lecturing to his students at a tutorial and gives us the most famous lines:  

Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate:  "To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods?"

The second time occurs just before Thursday’s has his “turn” in the same spot where Morse will many years later experience his own collapse. He says: ”’How well Horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old.’ We'd a padre big on that out in the desert. Drumhead service just before Alamein. ‘And how can man die better than facing fearful odds?’ Always stuck with me.”

I think they used those lines to plainly tease the idea that Thursday was going to die. Prior to Exeunt airing, almost everyone thought Thursday would have to die in order to explain Morse’s never mentioning him again in the future. When Fortescue says those lines in the beginning, I think we’re supposed to think that someone—probably Thursday—is going to die heroically. Then Thursday repeats some of the poem—connecting it to his WWII service—just before he has his “spell” and it seems like more foreshadowing. 

The thing about the poem though, that most people *don’t* know, is that the big surprise at the end is that Horatio *doesn’t* die. It just looks like he will: Even when his companions have abandoned the bridge because it is on the verge of collapse, Horatius remains. He stays until bridge finally does fail, and then plunges into the river below with the full weight of his armor. It is certain death and both sides stand stunned into silence by his final sacrifice.

But then, both sides find themselves even more surprised when they see the crest of his helmet beginning to rise from the water and he slowly emerges, striding towards the Roman bank. He not only survives, but arrives home to a hero’s welcome and a long life.

All of the usual narrative pieces are in place for us to expect Thursday to make the ultimate sacrifice—to die. For me, Thursday—like Horatio—does sacrifice everything, but the poem was actually foreshadowing his survival, not his death. And for Thursday, his survival is in many ways a far more difficult sacrifice than death would have been. It would have been easier for him in so many ways if he had died in defense of Sam or even fighting Lott. Instead he has to live with the ambiguous and messy aftermath.

Morse could also be Horatio in the sense that he goes to Blenheim Vale facing a high probability of death. What were the chances that the bikers would “come through” for him? That Morse went expecting to be double-crossed and killed by Lott seems much more likely to me. But I do think that Morse, like Horatio, would reason that, “If you’re going to go, then there’s no better way than defending the things that are most important to you,” and so he goes anyway.

He survives too—but unlike Horatio, his heroism will always remain a secret *and* with his realization about Thursday’s guilt and Lott’s revelation about Tomahawk’s identity, it brings perhaps more sorrow than it does victory. And, I would argue that his survival is only temporary or perhaps partial.

The gunshot scene has many possible interpretations, but at its core, my (forever unprovable) theory is that it balances out the survival foreshadowed by Horatio. Horatio was all about the audience assuming that Thursday had to die. But along with that went the assumption that of course Endeavour had to live. This is a prequel after all.

But the gunshot scene said a big, loud, “No. We can kill off Endeavour if we want to and we will.” You can go back and forth until the cows come home about whether or not the scene was simply him contemplating death, actually going through with it, or absolutely, purely symbolic and imaginative. However, I don’t think you can honestly argue that the scene doesn’t somehow connect the concepts of  “Endeavour Morse,” “gun,” and “death” to each other. Somehow those concepts have to be included in any interpretation.

So this leads to my weird theory about Exeunt, which is that Russ Lewis heard everyone saying, “Well I don’t know what’s going to happen in the end, but of course we all know that Morse is going to live—so no suspense there. And Thursday, well, he has to die. I mean it’s the only way to explain why we never hear about him later.” And to this, Russ Lewis thought, “Ha! I’m going to do exactly the opposite. Thursday lives and Morse dies!” 

Am I right? I will never know. Do I have more thoughts on Exeunt? You really, really don't want to know just how many.

[thecommandertable]

Keystone Commanders and How to Avoid Them

I think most Commander players realize that there are some decks that just fold in upon themselves when they can't keep their commander on the battlefield. I like to call these kinds of commanders "keystone commanders".

A keystone is that large, wedge-shaped central stone at the top of an arch. The idea is that if you remove that one piece, the whole thing collapses. If you've studied ecology or conservation, you're probably familiar with the term "keystone species"; a species that plays an integral role in sustaining an ecosystem. Likewise, a keystone commander has an integral role in a deck's strategy; without it, that deck won't be able to execute its gameplan.

Keystone commanders are often very powerful! I have an Arcades, the Strategist deck, all about attacking people with defender creatures.

Arcades draws a bunch of cards and lets me attack with an ever-growing squad of large-toughness creatures like Shield Sphere, Wall of Shards, and The Pride of Hull Clan. Take Arcades off the battlefield, though, and I'm left with a bunch of creatures that can't attack. Savvy opponents will just kill and counter Arcades until I can't cast him anymore due to commander tax, or use something like Darksteel Mutation or Kenrith's Transformation to turn off his abilities. Powerful keystone commanders tend to make for these hot-and-cold strategies. Either your commander sticks and you win handily or it doesn't and your deck does next to nothing. That might not be a big deal if you've got a wide variety of decks, but if you've only got a handful and most of them fit this mold, the polarizing gameplay can get tiresome. It can happen pretty easily, too; keystone commanders are enticing to build around for less experienced deckbuilders, as their designs tend to provide a clear roadmap to how to build the deck. It doesn't take a veteran Commander player to look at Arcades and realize that the deck should be chock-full of defender creatures, but it does take experience to foresee the consequences of building a deck that's so reliant on its commander.

Well, what to do?

Sometimes the solution is swapping in a different Commander. One of my earliest Commander decks was a White/Blue flyers & blink deck with Isperia, Supreme Judge at the helm, but when Brago, King Eternal was printed a couple years later, I eagerly swapped him in over Isperia: his ability was on-theme, after all, and he was on the whole a much more powerful commander. I added Strionic Resonator, which can go infinite with Brago's ability and some mana rocks. As I kept playing with Brago, it became more and more obvious to me and my friends that whether I won or not depended entirely on whether I could keep Brago on the board long enough to start attacking with him. Classic keystone commander.

I cut value flying creatures for more counterspells to protect Brago and more mana rocks to ensure that I would be able to combo with Strionic Resonator. At one point it stopped being about flying creatures altogether—it was just about Brago. And after a decade of Brago's despotic ghostly grip on the deck, I decided to depose him. I replaced him with Yorion, Sky Nomad. Yorion still gives me good value even if an opponent kills it right away, its ability doesn't threaten an infinite combo, and the cards it works well with, creatures with enters effects and flicker spells like Ephemerate, also work well with each other in case Yorion's not on the battlefield.

Other commanders provide a little more flexibility in how you build around them, and the degree to which they are keystone commanders can vary. For instance, many players who build Feather, the Redeemed will build her as a Voltron deck.

Voltron Feather recurs spells like Titan's Strength and Psychotic Fury to grow Feather and crack in for big chunks of damage. As you might imagine, any deck looking to kill people with commander damage is going to have a keystone commander regardless of what it is. Voltron Feather, though hard to kill due to repeatable protection spells like Loran's Escape and Boon of Safety, like any keystone commander, will leave the deck in the lurch if she can't do her thing. Fortunately, there are lots of different directions you can take a Feather the Redeemed deck. My personal build mixes a creature token theme with a devotion-to-white subtheme and has lots of ways to recur small creatures. I use Feather primarily as a card draw engine—letting me reuse cantrips like Bandage and Crimson Wisps—and the deck as a whole is a lot more powerful when she's in play. But if she gets killed in the mid-to-late game, assuming I still control my other creatures, I can still get over the finish line without her. You can consider many commander deckbuilding decisions in this light. Not every card choice will make the difference between making your commander keystone or not, but they'll shift the needle a little bit. For example, putting background cards in the 99, such as Guild Artisan, will push that needle towards keystone-ness; or at least make your commander a juicier target for opponents' removal. Same goes for Lieutenant creatures like Skyhunter Strike Force.

In general, you'll want to be careful about cards that require your commander to be on the battlefield to function at all; say Well of Lost Dreams in a Dragonlord Dromoka deck that doesn't have many ways to gain life outside of Dromoka's lifelink: it might be a decent way to draw cards, but it's also further incentivizing opponents to aim their removal spells at Dromoka. If you're looking to build a new commander deck and want to get away from keystone commanders, here are some criteria to look for:

Low mana-value commanders that you can play early for value, either by ramping you or drawing cards: Ruby, Daring Tracker; Azusa, Lost but Seeking; Jori En, Ruin Diver

Commanders with "enter" effects, like Gonti, Lord of Luxury; Sharuum the Hegemon; Prime Speaker Zegana

Commanders whose abilities have a lot of redundancies among their 99: Sythis, Harvest's Hand; Nekusar, the Mindrazer

Alternately, as you're building a new deck, ask yourself these questions:

Can my deck win without its commander on the battlefield?

If I were playing against this deck, how highly would I prioritize killing its commander?

Hopefully this will help you diversify your commander portfolio a little bit. I want to reiterate that having the occasional keystone commander isn't a bad thing, it's only that it's very easy to fall into the habit of exclusively building around powerful keystone commanders—and when your playgroup gets in the mindset that your commander always needs to die, well, they tend to kill your commander a lot.

[zopharooni]

"Waking up"

A short DMAU story

Suddenly I found myself kneeling on cold stone, and... by the five it's bright here.

Where... am I?

I dig into my brain to remember, what happened?

Pain. A splitting headache, no, migraine. What is this feeling? I force myself up, yet failing, collapsing back onto the cold stone. A ritual stone. My limbs are trembling and quaking, almost unresponsive to my commands. A sharp pain in my chest makes itself apparent, and as I draw in a breath, my stomach churns and threatens to make a mess of the ground below me. Forcing the feeling back down, I feel nothing but heat, my mind spinning, the world around me fuzzy.

Two figures make themselves known, familiar, yet I cannot bring myself to remember who they are. Any thought that comes close to piecing it together is fiercely torn apart by the pain circling in my skull. I see their mouths move and... wait... I can't hear them?

The revelation is swiftly interrupted by another wave of nausea, yet this time, I fail to keep it contained. The acid stings my throat and mouth, bringing an awful taste along with it.

I force myself to stand, disgusted by the result of this terrible illness that has afflicted me. Succeeding, I take a better look at the 2 figures, now running at me. Heretics? Coming for my crown? No, I can't let this happen. I take a step backwards, and my vision begins to fade. They are right on me as I stumble backwards and begin to fall. Wait, is that...?

Darkness.

I awaken again, this time on a bed. I feel myself slipping into unconsciousness once more, and briefly taking in my surroundings, it appears to be a medical bay. Various books, bottles and herbs litter the surrounding tables. The stand to my side has a bowl of soup, and a cup of tea.

The darkness persists. I can't move, the illness forcing my body to shut down.

Over an unknown amount of time, I can occasionally catch glimpses of movement in and out of the medical bay. A rat, and a goat. Who are they? I feel I should know, but my condition betrays me. Both seem to monitor me. The rat never staying too long, always seeming occupied, yet... Concerned.

But the goat? It stays for longer. Sitting by my bed and observing. I swear I can see it's mouth move, as if speaking to me.

Light. I feel myself awakening. My bones weak, muscles aching from lack of activity. Yet, I can finally think straight. My memories are still foggy, but I'm sure they will come with time. Right now, I need to get a better look at that rat. Who are they? I should know this.

As I look around the medical bay, able to fully take in what's happening, the goat is there. Staring, as if in disbelief, and yet a slight concern in it's eyes.

I know this goat.

"You!" I mutter.

I leap from my bed, feeling a sudden vitality upon seeing his face.

He steps back, surprised by my lunge, yet too slow to get enough distance.

I rapidly close the small distance, arms outstretched...

and swiftly embrace him in a hug.

"Solomon... By the five, I've missed you..."

[grimbanes]

Apple with Cinnamon. (3rd person pov).

Summary: Kaz Brekker x Healer!GN! reader - Y/N, amidst the chaos of a heist gone wrong, stumbles upon an injured Kaz Brekker, bleeding out rapidly in a dingy alleyway and choking on his words. They waste no time doing everything they can to keep him alive; neither knew why they did because kindness was a luxury nobody could afford in Ketterdam.

WC: 3k

TW: kaz's boundaries being pushed, mentions of his touch aversion, lots of blood and violence, somewhat heavy descriptions of wounds, panic attacks, usual six of crows warnings. sorry kazzy.

A/N: i wrote this in one sitting after thinking about how Y/N is always getting injured in heists. why not have it be reversed? kaz is stubborn. it's not proof read, we die like muzzen. im tempted to make another part but both can be read as stand alone pieces but this one can be read as strangers to friends or love interest, up to the reader.

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Desperation wasn’t in Y/N’s vocabulary. It was not something that crossed their mind. Desperation meant admitting to weakness and weakness cost you in the Barrel. Desperation meant needing someone and that was the last thing you wanted even if you were just roaming the streets of Ketterdam; ironically enough, desperation was the only word to describe the situation the Dregs seemed to have found themselves in. Just how was Y/N going to save Kaz ‘Dirtyhands’ Brekker from bleeding out all over the floor, possible concussion or worse, physical touch. They really didn’t want to lose their fingers for crowding his space.

Just how had they found themselves in an alleyway with the cruellest crime boss to crawl out of the harbour at this hour? Y/N could only stare at the man’s slouched figure against the wall, his infamous crow-headed cane laid across the floor beside his leg that caused his uneven walk. Blood dripped down the side of his face, his lips pulled into a grim downwards turn, that much they could see as they approached the hunched figure - his discomfort didn’t go unnoticed as he grit his teeth, barely conscious, hand pressed to a wound on his side and breathing desperately erratic. His fancy garb stained a delicate hue of rose and it was most definitely a shame. 

“Excuse me,” Y/N’s voice called out softly, almost wishing to blow away with the cool evening breeze when more explosions thundered through the damp streets hailed by shrieking and gunfire echoing down abandoned lanes in the darkness of the evening. “Do you need help?”

The Bastard of the Barrel’s eyes barely flitted over to them, a wince strewn along the tired creases of his shadowed face, sparing a begrudging glance and not long after, there was a revolver pointed directly at Y/N’s chest. They still approached, even as the leader of the Dregs pulled down the hammer on his gun and barely mumbled something to them. It sounded almost like a ‘don’t touch me’. But they could see the way his hand trembled, pale fingers peeking through crimson streams and it was reminiscent of a DeKeppal oil.

“Please, I can help you, Mister Brekker,” They tried again, stepping closer until they stood over him. Y/N lowered their wicker basket, shopping long forgotten with the sudden emergency. They really did not know why they were showing the man kindness… they just had to. Nobody deserved to have that expression tearing them apart at the seams. 

Truthfully, they did not like to use their power. It was too risky, too exposed, especially in Ketterdam. Y/N didn’t want to spend the rest of their life fighting for an army that meant little to them. They didn’t see the reward in healing hostages or fixing generals that treated them poorly or assisting sick royals who ate too much and drank their weight in fine wines. Better to stay hidden - that was until Kaz Brekker had collapsed in the alleyway only a few street turns from their home, stumbling mere steps from an explosion that had knocked him off of already unsteady feet. 

“Go,” He mumbled, sweat beading up his brow and arm dropping, clearly not perceiving Y/N as a threat. For some reason, his gaze glanced to the exit behind them, but they didn’t mind that. Instead they got to their knees and rolled up the sleeves of their work shirt, tucking it around the elbow.

“You’re losing blood, Brekker. I’m not military trained but I’ll do my best,” They sincerely promised and connected their hands, closing their eyes and tapping into that Small Science that caused them grief daily, dulled their skin with lack of use and made them unable to stomach food on many days, even when they walked past food carts selling all manners of treats.

“I don’t want your science, I have business-” Brekker hissed, fingers trembling against the wound in his side and he gasped quietly, schooling his gaze as he panted in laboured breath after wheezing breath, stony eyes staring through sweat-covered strands of ebony. “To finish.”

Y/N didn’t listen as they concentrated as best they could given their surroundings. They tried to ignore the yelling of commands, the subtle gunfire, the many men and women skittering around for a place to hide. Luckily none dared such down that little alley that they had both tucked into. They pulled at skin, searching the bleeding man’s body and frowning as they realised they needed to be closer. They shuffled into his space, dropping one knee to the ground beside the man’s hand, careful not to kneel on his cane and carefully hovered their hands over the wound he was clutching with one hand, the other limp at his side now that he had dropped his gun. 

They searched the wound, pulling the flesh at its very edges and willing it to pull closed, only to flinch upon the discovery of shrapnel lodged in his side and slowly edging deeper, daring to almost knick his lung and wedge itself there. Y/N would not let that happen - certainly not now, it would look as if they had intentionally killed Kaz Brekker and that was a bounty they certainly did not want over their head. 

“Brekker, listen to me, Brekker,” They pleaded, wanting to turn his head to face him when his head lolled to the side, eyelids fluttering and his breathing shallow, the shadows beneath his eyes deepening with every passing second that you didn’t do something. “I need you awake, stay with me. Talk to me about anything. Tell me about your favourite book, your favourite song. What’s your favourite kind of food?” 

Y/N’s voice seemed to do the trick, the unsteady, glossy gaze of the most notorious gang boss watching their hands as they moved to unbutton his waistcoat, trembling fingers pulling it open and his breathing only fastened, his chest heaving, eyes flickering from the hands to their face, jaw tensing and tongue seemingly heavy in his mouth.

“The Pale Library. Kruge being dropped on my desk. Apple pie,” Kaz began to list, a rasping voice that was heavy, grating and flinching away as sweat began to drip and mix with the river of cardinal staining his alabaster skin. 

The Barrel boss’ taste in book had Y/N smiling to themself as they unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it aside and coming face to face with the deep, large gash along the man’s abdomen, just slightly to the side and lucky just beneath a lung. Hopefully it stayed that way, despite his hunched posture most definitely pushing the metal closer and closer. They didn’t know if they had the skill to save him if it punctured his lung. He’d either drown in his own blood or bleed out. Either way, they were determined to help him. 

“So you like fairy tales? Is that apple with cinnamon?” They asked as they cringed for a moment, trying to keep him distracted as they dug their finger and thumb into the open wound that continued to seep and pour all over them, red staining every bit of their skin. They were not sure if it would even wash off. If this night would ever wash off. They continued to feel inside the wound, trying to feel for the metal shard, using their ability as best as they could but they could not soothe like a heartrender could. 

Kaz trembled beneath them, deadly silent and shaking, shivering so much that he might as well have fallen into the harbour and caught a chill. He gasped, hands limp at his side and head dropping back down, unable to keep himself afloat. Y/N pulled the shrapnel messily from the wound and dropped it between them, immediately setting to work on sealing the worst of it. It would take time. It might take too long. No. It was fine. He was healing faster than they anticipated. 

Y/N dared to steal a glance away from the closing wound to check up on the man’s face only to realise he had passed out, cheeks deathly pale and reminiscent of a ghost. 

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They couldn’t believe that they had just dragged Dirtyhands through the Barrel, arms distressed where they had been hooked beneath his shoulders, his legs and heels dragging across the slick cobble in the dead of night as the fight began to cease, Stadwatch barking orders and hunting down anyone they could find in the streets. They were both lucky that they’d been able to drag him out of that alley just before it had been stormed. Y/N kept Brekker’s revolver clutched in their hand as they dragged him, cane tucked awkwardly in their wicker basket that was dangling awkwardly from their elbow. If he knew of it, he was sure he’d have their head for putting such a stain on his reputation.

He’d remained unconscious even as the healer dragged his still body three blocks, dozens of turns, only stirring when they had begged him to tell Y/N where to go. The mumbling of ‘the Slat’ was all they got before his eyelids twitched and his head dropped forward again, hair in his stupid face and arms as limp and useless as the rest of him. 

“Stupid Bastard of the Barrel. I don’t even know you, I don’t even like you. You’re a criminal, a thief, a murderer, a con artist. You’re one cruel son of a bitch and I still couldn’t just mind my damn business,” Y/N mumbled more to themselves than to the unfortunate man in their clutches, they were sure it wasn’t going to do his leg any good, now that they knew it was broken bone beneath the scarred flesh. So he wasn’t born this way, they had thought silently. 

It felt like hours when in reality it was only maybe 25 minutes before Y/N was dragging Kaz Brekker up the little steps of the Slat, back to the door and shoving it open with all their might. They could feel the sting in their shoulder blade as they stumbled backwards, landing on their tailbone and still clutching onto the unconscious man they were trying so damn hard to save for no apparent reason. All the frustration seemed to be finally catching up, tears unwillingly streaming down their face, soaked in someone else’s blood and so utterly stressed as they sniffled and hooked their hands back under Brekker’s form, dragging him completely into the building. Y/N’s body gave up, leaving them both sat at the floor, one sat up and clutching the Bastard of the Barrel unceremoniously to their chest, no strength left to keep moving his dead weight.

“Brekker, you’ve gotta wake up. I can’t do this on my own, they might kill me. I don’t know what to do.”

“What in the Saints?” 

Y/N turned their head to the side, meeting eyes with a tall Zemeni man, hands on his revolvers and tweed jacket covered in dust, soot, debris of many kinds. He had cuts all over his beautiful face but seemed otherwise unscathed. Nothing life threatening. It didn’t take him long to rush forward, linking one of Brekker’s arms over his shoulder lifting the weight off of Y/N; they went with the moment anyway, staggering to their feet and helping drag the man to a table and throwing him onto it, back against the cold wood. Once he was placed, albeit unceremoniously, they stumbled into a seat, elbows propped on the table and head in their palms. 

Saints, Y/N was exhausted. 

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“Why are you staring at me, Jesper?” Kaz heard his own voice spit, hoarse and dry. It was the first words he’d spoken in who knew how long, his usual scowl hanging on his tired features the moment he opened his eyes. He scanned the room around him, a low frown on his bitten lips and brows taut with tension that easily mirrored the waves wracking through every fiber of his body. 

“Oh, thank the Saints,” Jesper sighed from beside him, hands clutched in a prayer as he looked to the ceiling and then back down, hands resting on his revolvers and grand smile on his wonky mouth. 

“Saints don’t stick their fingers into open wounds,” Kaz shot back, pushing himself up with one arm and pressing a hand to his head, the blistering headache unaided by the dim light. He vaguely registered that he was in the Slat, the events of all that transpired clawing at every crevice of his mind. He couldn’t be thankful about that. He didn’t want to be. He didn’t want to drown again. He didn’t want to think of it. All the same, he was breathing. He was alive. Kaz Brekker had made it through the night.

His eyes then fell upon a hunched over figure, head laid upon crossed arms that were gripped by bloodstained fingers, the entire surface of skin a rich shade of red that seeped into their clothes, sat in messy hair and splattered across gentle cheeks. The healer. His brows furrowed tighter, hand dropping to absentmindedly massage his aching leg and he stared. And stared. And stared. That was his blood.

“Been here all night, boss. Wouldn’t leave your side until you were stable and stitched. Cost ‘em a good deal of energy though, passed out as soon as you were sorted and hasn’t moved since. Still breathing though, poor little love,” Jesper recited, giving them a nudge with his hand but Kaz shook his head, unfamiliar feelings stirring inside his chest. Just let them rest, Jes.

“What happened?” He mumbled, fingers twitching and gloved. He briefly remembered warm fingers unbuttoning his shirt, smoothing his skin, a voice whispering kindly to him, then searing pain. He didn’t want to think of the rest, didn’t want to feel the water in his lungs and cold hands holding his head just beneath the surface of frozen waters. 

Jesper shifted, arms folding and hands tucking beneath his armpits, lips pursing and he awkwardly shifted his weight from foot to foot, sheepishly shifting his gaze from his feet, to Kaz, then back to his feet, then back to Kaz.

“Razorgulls, maybe. Then Stadwatch, then whoever else. It’s still a mess, honestly. Everyone else is doing as good as can be, I suppose; Inej was here but went back out with Nina to do something. I don’t know. Wylan’s asleep. Someone planted explosives and somebody else accidentally… shot them,” He sheepishly pointed to himself with his thumbs, but the shame was evident. 

“What about them?” Kaz nodded to the stranger still sleeping on his table, inches from where he sat on the table, legs outstretched.

“Y/N Y/L/N. Works in one of the printing shops, didn’t find anything about them being grisha though, so must have kept that hidden well or their boss is the only one who knows. The rest is a mystery other than the piss poor amount of kruge they get for the work they do.”

“That’s it?” Kaz’s tone sounded harsh, short, even to his own ears.

“That’s it.”

Kindness was not a thing that existed in the Barrel. In Ketterdam. In Kerch. In him. Kaz had a hard time truly trying to decipher this stranger’s motives. They had recognized him, calling him by name numerous times. There had never been any real malice, no fear either. Concern for his well-being, but not their own life. It was foolish. They could have gotten themselves killed all for what? To save the Dirtyhands and hope to reap the reward they must expect to come from it? He had half the mind to put a bullet in their head and dump them in the harbor before they even had a chance to see the benefits of all of their hard work. Kindness did not exist in Ketterdam and Kaz Brekker was a daily reminder of that fact.

But as the stranger known as Y/N Y/L/N stirred from their restless slumber, their eyes opening and meeting Kaz’s, he was reminded of the gentleness of their tone of voice, talking to him about books, about pie. Keeping him grounded even as he sank down and down and down and couldn’t breathe, feeling those hands shove him down faster and faster and the tide rushing over head, his brother staring up at him with lifeless eyes and the soft, slimy and cold feeling beneath his fingertips - warmth.

Kaz’s eyes snapped to the hand lightly hovering over his broken leg, just enough to stitch the gashes around his feet and ankles, only now noticing the shredded ends of his tailored trousers. The healer was at work again, a small yet tired smile on their face, tiredness present in fine lines across their face, beneath their eyes and soon they were staring back at him, cheeks flushed and hair a desperate mess, soaked with Brekker’s blood.

“You look better, much better. I’m so glad, Mister Brekker,” Y/N laughed breathlessly, and Kaz didn’t know how they were able to. He didn’t understand it and all he could do was sit there, noting that this stranger didn’t offer to fix the break in his bone, just the damage that must have been caused in the explosion and when they had apparently dragged him all the way back to the Slat.

“With cinnamon.” That was all he could muster his blank mind to say.

The pair exchanged a glance, one that lingered, one that had both of their lips pulling upwards slightly and tips of ears maybe turning a shade of pink.

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[tenpintsof-sundrop]

Can we please have a sneak peek at your Donna Troy x kryptonian reader, chemical brain fic?

I LOOOOOVE how there is one person who follows me who is obsessed with Donna Troy. and specifically obsessed with this fic (you are probably the person who requested it, shout out to you)

when I finish this fic, know it was for you. ALSO, I added 'first kiss with Donna Troy' to my schedule, just for you <333

I am gonna put this one back on my schedule again too

also looking at it, there is way more of it done than I thought there was (but I still need to finish like 60% of it oof)

soooo - SURE. a preview it is

(Currently Untitled) The Rage Chemical Fic - Donna Troy x Fem!Kryptonian!Reader (Angst, Hurt and Comfort) - FANFIC PREVIEW

(also this fic really needs a title. like badly)

Warnings for this preview: cheesy flirting, mentions of Dawn x Dick (because this is set during the 'flashback era' with the OG Titans); not a lot of warnings here? stalking/unknown surveillance, the reader being a target for Cadmus and not knowing it, the reader uses she/her pronouns; the reader has Kryptonian powers (super strength, flight, lazer eyes, etc.) but I don't think that it has to denote the reader's body type. I think that's it for this preview section.

...

It was an odd sight, but strangely enough - the Tower was calm.

Somehow, the Titans had stumbled upon the conditions to have themselves a calm, quiet Sunday. Garth and Hank were sitting on the couch trying to best each other in Call of Duty, their eyes glassed over as they stared at the screen and obnoxious shooting noises came from the TV (which had been forcefully turned down by Donna so that everyone else could enjoy their peace). Dick was sitting in one of the large armchairs with Dawn in his lap - it seemed that he was enjoying a rare moment of not having to do much of anything, soaking up the calmness. 

And you were in the kitchen with Donna, preparing a selection of foods for a homemade taco night (Donna’s idea), snacking on more bits than you were helping with as she pattered around, glancing between recipes she had pulled up on her iPad and stirring pots, chopping things, checking timers. Even when the team had the day off - she couldn’t rest. She was a busy body, she couldn’t help herself. 

“Six letter word for a rare flower?” Dawn was doing the Sunday crossword puzzle, and as usual, she had tried to get the answers on her own for a while, bending her own mind with the clues - but she was growing tired of guessing, so now she was fishing for answers. 

“Lamium?” Dick posed, running a hand gently up her back, quietly pleased to have such a beauty sitting in his lap. 

Dawn scrunched her nose as she looked at the puzzle closer. 

“No.” She said. “It starts with a D.”  

“A rare flower? How about - Donna?” You said, turning to Donna with a wicked smirk on your face as you popped a piece of raw bell pepper between your lips. 

Donna rolled her eyes at this very obvious bid to flirt, and you caught her suppressing a grin as she snatched a cutting board out from under you, filled with the peppers you had just been cutting - before she moved away with it, she leaned in a gave you a haste, sweet peck on the lips. She wanted to scold you when she tasted a variety of food on your lips and realized that you had been sneaking so much of it that was supposed to go into the final dinner, but she resisted. Instead, she turned and scooped the peppers into a pan on the stove behind her. 

“Barf.” Hank barged into the conversation suddenly, letting out a very fake gag.

...

Somewhere many miles outside of San Francisco, in a secluded bunker that was filled with Cadmus employees that couldn’t be traced back to LexCorp legally, a group of people eagerly watched a set of security monitors. 

Those monitors were filled with footage of you. Newsreels of you saving children from burning buildings, lifting cars off a collapsing bridge in order to save the people inside of them, cellphone footage of you holding up a concrete pillar to keep it from crushing a homeless encampment. 

In the center of all the screens, there were several invasive views of the Titans’ home. Someone had hacked into the Tower’s feed and was displaying it on those screens. While the Titans laughed, joked, and ate dinner, they had no clue that they were being watched by prying eyes. 

“Are you sure she’s the one?” One of the men asked, flicking through some pages on a clipboard in front of him. Files regarding your history. 

“She’s perfect.” A stern woman announced. “I want to start the test as soon as possible.” 

“Yes ma’am.” Someone else agreed. “We can have it launched within the hour.” 

[aaronsrpgs]

I've been so excited about this game for so long! They were kind enough to let me write a foreword for it, the entirety of which is below the break.

Thank god for mutants.

My first mutant encounter was in a flea market at the Warrens Cranberry Festival circa 1991. I hesitantly parted with my allowance to buy a comic whose cover’s top third (where the title and issue number were) had been torn off to secure monetary returns from the magazine distributor. Inside, five mutants struggled with being hated and, thereby, hating themselves. The art had a violent energy to it, ink scraped and splattered across the page by a young Bill Sienkiewicz and spare, harsh colors by Glynis Wein. Despite being in the X-Men family of comics, New Mutants shocked me in a way that changed my perception of art forever. It felt struggling and sinewy, like it was pulling itself toward its own creation.

The X-Men are famous the world over and must remain vaguely and forever themselves for the sake of marketing. The New Mutants, on the other hand, are virtual unknowns. They’re allowed to change. They get weird.

The joy of getting weird.

It’s great to fantasize about being beautiful while also shooting deadly beams from your eyes. But it’s a power fantasy, and for most of us, it remains out of our reach.

But to be a freak is a different kind of fantasy. Most of us are at least on our way there; many of us are already registered citizens of Freaktown. And the fantasies of freakdom are a bit different. They might include…

Watching the system collapse in the face of your freakiness.

Finding a bunch of other freaks.

Being accepted in your full freakitude.

But to me, to be a freak is to be allowed to change. To mutate. A freak can grow a new arm and remain at an equivalent level of freakiness. A freak can cancel their plans because of anxiety and not be rated any lower or higher than they already were. Being a freak is both a binary “yes” and an infinite spectrum. And this invitation to change is what the world (or at least the very limited pieces of it I see) needs right now.

Don’t fart on buses.

In the places I frequent, the refusal to change is extreme. I would not be surprised to read a news story where, upon farting aboard a crowded bus, a man is scolded for his behavior and asked not to repeat it, whereupon he stands up and hold forth on freedom: the freedom to fart where he pleases, no matter who is present and how thick the air is. And to request that he not engage in his god-given freedom to hot-box commuters, why, that is many degrees more sinful than the flatulent act, and you should be ashamed to even have mentioned it! This man is the worst X-Man ever, refusing to change, because that would mean hard work and ego death.

But we should be thankful for change! We should work on change. Change is why we’re not babies anymore. Change is why we don’t make the same stupid mistakes. Change is the only hope we have for a world where we’re not stuck huffing the farts of insistent farters.

Finally, Plasmodics.

Let’s get to the point. Plasmodics is a celebration of freaks. All the mutants are here, and we’re all smiling. But it’s not a static utopian fantasy; it’s an irradiated fata morgana of our own anti-freak world, where bad decisions outside of our control have ended our hopes for utopia over and over, and they will continue to do so.

So we scrabble around, searching for the artifacts our mutantcestors left behind, reveling in what might have been, and doing our small part to hold off the next ending so we can build some space and party down.

Come on in! The plasm’s fine.

[qcontinuumumum]

Fulgrim AU

It was a glorious dawn on Chemos, the last day of servitude as its industry advanced, its people free from labour and able to pursuit their own desires. The Coronation celebrated the one who changed the planet's fate, Fulgrim, he had stopped the never-ending toil the populace endured for the resources of off-world traders that they needed to survive.

Fulgrim awoke in his palace, it was a renovated factory with its machines removed. The first art of Chemos covered the palace, far from the drab greys the planet had only ever known, the walls were coloured in violets, scarlets and rouges. Paintings hanged on the walls, drawn on the back of supply mainfestos.

Gifts were left by his door, some priceless such as an ornate sword left by an old crone, others more sentimental like a child's doll that had one of its eyes torn off and had stitches over its body.

"These are the gratitudes of my people" Fulgrim mused.

As he walked the halls a man was waiting for him, he was dressed in fine clothing the likes of which the planet had never seen, decorated in shiny gems, all this marked him as one of the off-world traders that the planet once depended on.

"Congratulations" the man spoke "you've made a fine change here, this opulence suits you. If you wanted more you could strike a deal with me. Your people must be grateful to you for all the help you've given them, but they aren't capable of having so much freedom all to themselves, i mean look at this rubbish".

He gestures towards the paintings and the gifts. "This is the work of people who wouldn't know the meaning of beauty, they are labourers they need labour. I could show you exotic pieces from other worlds, and all you would have to do is let me take a few of these people to one of the distant moons to do what they do best, work".

He picks up the doll.

"I mean this is just plain shit", as he tosses it toward a wall.

Quicker than the man eyes could see, Fulgrim had rushed between the doll and the wall, catching it.

"This is mine" exclaimed Fulgrim "these people are mine, their achievements are mine, their future is mine and i will not let them suffer from parasites such as yourself who would let them work themselves to death for your gain and stifle their own desires".

"Your pride will be your downfall", the man stormed off.

Later that night

Fulgrim stood on the balacony addressing a crowd of hundreds of thousands.

"This is the future you have all been tirelessly working for and you will share in its wealth," before the speech could continue the sky was alight with flame as fire fell upon the palace grounds.

The people screamed and trampled over each other to get away, the palace was in blazes and many couldn't escape. Fulgrim looked up at the source and saw in the planet's thermosphere a trading vessel.

The palace collapsed with Fulgrim trapped, the fire consuming all within. The paintings destroyed, the doll burned and the ornate sword... glowed. Its light grew as the last death yell of the people trapped within.

Fugrim reached for the sword and feeling its energy unleashed it.

The ship above was ripped from realty as a warp hole appeared and its crew ripped apart by the souls of the dead.

In the dawn Fulgrim rose from his ashes.

[birdmitosis]

So my brain is full-on thinking about a Bloodborne AU for STP. And I've got a lot of the pre-story stuff figured out...

Before the actual story starts, the Narrator is horrified and despairing over the state of Yharnam. There seems to be no way to stop these transformations… Most of the town turning into beasts because of the Healing Church's blood ministration, others changing in horrifying ways due to the knowledge they're gaining or experimentation being performed on them, even the Hunters themselves becoming the worst beasts once they have hunted too much. It seems impossible to stop this horrific collapse of everything and everyone the Narrator thinks of as home.

But then he has an idea. And he calls upon the Shifting Mound -- a deity, a force of the universe, a Great One who of course yearns for a child as they all do, and as they are all sympathetic in spirit She comes to him. He promises Her a ritual that will allow him to split off a piece of Her. And he does, but of course it's not to give Her a child.

The Narrator in this is not trying to slay the concept of death. He is instead desperately trying to slay the part of Her that is change. It is, he thinks, the only way to stop what is happening to Yharnam, to save those who are not already lost.

So he takes a part of Her and makes a Hunter. In the process, he loses his life, his ability to ever exist in the waking world. He and the Shifting Mound become tied to the Hunter's Dream -- as does the Plain Doll (the default Princess), a vessel for another little piece of Her. He had to take a piece of Her out of the Hunter in order to place a piece of himself inside them, too, and the Plain Doll will be able to call on some small part of the Shifting Mound's power to make the Hunter stronger. He hopes that this will allow them to become strong enough to destroy the Shifting Mound by the end.

And the Hunter becomes strong enough, but does not do it. Nor do They rejoin the Shifting Mound, however. They ascend themself, becoming the Long Quiet -- and in so doing, pieces of Them scatter off throughout Yharnam. Pieces who have confused bits of memory that make them feel like they're real people, who have a connection to the Hunter's Dream.

The Narrator gets rid of the Plain Doll. She is part of what encouraged the Long Quiet to become what They did. He cannot risk this happening again, and he has other chances, but only so many. One of them has to succeed; he's already given everything to this effort. So he takes over for the Plain Doll, though his ability to strengthen a Hunter is much harder for him to use, takes more out of him.

...AND AGAIN, that is all pre-story. Like the equivalent of the entire plot of Bloodborne is happening again, but it also happened before, with the Protagonist/the Long Quiet being the PC Hunter.

Now the PC Hunter is Voice of the Hero. And the other voices are out there, also scattered pieces of the Long Quiet, people but not originally people and not quite human but not aware of this.

The vessels are all out there too, and I'm not sure yet if I want them to be pieces of the Shifting Mound... I might play more with the idea that, as the vessels become less human, they become closer to the Shifting Mound, sort of the other side of the coin of that "you speak in circles, does it matter where one thing ends and the other begins" bit, where in this AU they weren't originally pieces of Her but does that really matter if She claims them and they come to Her?

Also also, there aren't a lot of direct 1-to-1s when it comes to characters, but things I definitely know for sure:

Hero is "the Hunter," of course.

Stubborn is also a Hunter and a member of the Powder Keggers. (Thank you for such a perfect idea, @captain-modeus-the-enby!)

Cold is the equivalent of Eileen the Crow, in that he is absolutely a Hunter of Hunters. Like 100% are you kidding me.

Broken is the equivalent of the Oedon Chapel Dweller because 🥺😭

Skeptic probably used to be associated with Mensis but bounced before they did that absolutely heinous shit in Yahar'gul.

Contrarian is potentially like Skeptic too, though Contrarian absolutely wears the blindfold cap of a member of the Choir (kind of like a reverse Edgar).

Not 100% sure about the other voices yet (Cheated might start off as just a "rescuable" "civilian"?) but I do know that Paranoid is going to be very unhappy to learn about a) "eyes on the inside" and b)the Amygdalas.

Obviously the Beast is a beast boss.

The Witch is probably somewhere in Hemwick Charnal Lane, but she might be in the woods elsewhere...

The Nightmare is absolutely the cornerstone of one of the Nightmare realms, like she feels like what you have to defeat to get out of the Nightmare of Mensis after dealing with tons of Frenzy throughout the whole place.

The Spectre used to be a Vileblood and is haunting Cainhurst Castle! Some of the others might be as well, like the Greys and the Wraith, if I don't just stick with Chapter II vessels (or if something happens to the Damsel or the Prisoner).

Speaking of them, though, probably not all the Princesses will be monsters/bosses. I think Damsel will also be a "rescuable civilian" that you can tell to go to the Chapel, and Prisoner will probably be in the Hypogean Gaol (maybe also rescuable, ssssort of the Adella equivalent only not with her same role?).

The Stranger might be the result of Choir experiments, in their attempts to turn people into Great Ones?

Not sure about the rest of the vessels either, tbh!

[carionto]

I think my Humans are closer to being Space Cockroaches

on drugs, sure, but hear me out

So, I seem to have a problem with planets (of the potentially habitable variety):

I'm literally collapsing Earth (plus Cthulu is in it, but that's another matter)

Haven't touched upon Venus, and Mars only got like one mention of getting sprinkled with asteroids and seed shotguns

Currently the planet they're trying to make habitable for dinosaurs, I just off-handedly set on fire

And another prospective one has been lost to Human-made Giant Mutant Ants

Meanwhile, various moons keep getting all the action, and there's way more moons than planets to boot, so I'm thinkin'...

You hear stories of people living in the most desolate places and creating sometimes amazing make-shift dwellings, so I'm pretty sure I've got Humans already all over the Galaxy living fully established lives and everything.

And I as the creator/author don't know about them yet. I didn't think to make it this way, at this point certain aspects of the world are creating themselves, I'm just becoming an observer who simply relays what I notice. In a way, it's kind of a cool feeling when the pieces I knowingly put down are now bringing other missing pieces into existence that I wasn't aware were part of the puzzle.

[lurafita]

Piece of dialoge that I would put in a reverse Malec au

As the title states, this is basically me writing down a kinda scene that's swimming around in my head.

it is definitely a story I want to write, but I'm not sure about my ability to write it. However, this one scene, though not fleshed out and pretty much just dialoge at the moment, made me want to type it up and share it with people who might enjoy it. Pairing: Magnus/Alec Lots of friendships and some background pairings that aren't depicted in this scene. Reverse!verse with Shadowhunter!Magnus and Warlock!Alec (as well as other known downworlders being shadowhunters and shadowhunters being downworlders.) I don't think any content warnings apply, as it is really just a scene with dialoge between Alec and Magnus, in which Magnus does most of the talking. Its main purpose is to portray the type of Shadowhunter I believe Magnus would be.

Alec: “You confuse me.”

Magnus, flirting: “In a good way, I hope.”

Alec, agitated: “You say you want to work your way up to a position of power in Idris. Become Inquisitor or Consul one day. Yet you act uncaring about the risk to your life that every new mission poses, and spit in the face of almost all of the Clave’s rules and regulations. I have lived for centuries, and in that time I have met many of your kind. You are… you confuse me.”

Magnus, smiling but contemplative: “I like being a Shadowhunter. Fighting against the forces of evil, protecting those that can’t protect themselves, helping those who need it. Working and training with Raphael and Catharina and Dot and Ragnor. Teaching Simon and watching him grow into his talents, though if you tell him I said that I will deny it. I truly, honestly, love these parts of my life. But I’m not blind to the Clave’s - and Shadowhunters’ as a whole, I guess - many shortcomings and failings. The Clave, our teachings and philosophies are far from perfect, and some are downright unjust. They are so very stuck in their ways and stagnant about the law, they carry prejudice and bigotry at their very center.

"Even after the circle, even after the uprising and the many little and big changes this whole world has gone through, Shadowhunters appear almost allergic to change. Non-heterosexual relationships still are discouraged and looked down upon by many, especially those of higher standings. Relationships with downworlders that aren’t purely professional are just one step above being forbidden, and if it weren’t for the accords, I have no doubt that the Clave would try to imprison anyone who engages in those. "I want to change this. As much as I can. But I won’t do it by playing by the very rules I wish to overthrow. I’m the son of a traitor, but I’m loyal to our mission. I’m openly bisexual, but I’m the best of my generation. I’m friends with more downworlders than most members of the Clave have met in their lifetime and have even dated some of them, and me and my team are still the ones other institutes call upon when they need back up.

"I don’t care about the obstacles the Clave will try to put into my way, or how much they turn up their noses. I will rise up the ranks one day and earn a position that enables me to make things better for the next generation, both Shadowhunters and Downworlders. And I will do it wearing fancy clothes and glittery make-up, proudly proclaiming any relationships I may have as loudly as I need to. I will prove to them that our world needs to change, and that it won’t collapse because a woman is leading an institute without a husband by her side, or because a male Shadowhunter is in a relationship with a male Downworlder. And while I may act a bit blasé about the dangers of my job, I’m not naive to the reason as to why many Shadowhunters die young. "But by the angel, as long as I live, I will walk this path towards change, and I won’t compromise who I am as I walk it.”

Then Alec looking at Magnus a little starstruck and awed.

And Magnus suddenly being a little uncomfortable going: “Phew, that was a lot of far too serious talk. What say you we go out for a drink? I know a great club in the city!”

[13tinysocks]

A nonexhaustive list of creepypasta x reader ideas ive had over the years and will never write. Please feel free to steal them and write them.

Red Eye

Coffee shop + slender mansion au. Yn is a lone night shift barista. The creepypasta(s) of your choice comes in every night for a red eye right before closing. Gotta fuel up before chasing down idiots who wandered in the woods. 

 Anyone whos worked customer service has felt a little homicidal before. After weeks of dealing with a shitty customer who management has done nothing about, yn takes matters into their own hands. By smashing their head in with a stovetop expresso maker. The creepypasta sees this though yn is unaware. Expecting them to be like any other human, the pasta thinks the next time the shop’s open yn wont be there. They’ll probably turn themselves in. Whatever.

But there’s no break in business for investigation and yns working there the next night. Upon realizing yn cleaned up the scene and is going on like nothing happened, the pasta’s interest is thoroughly peaked. Especially when another shithead customer gets brained a few weeks later. Realizing there’s a new serial killer in town, the pasta is more than interested but infatuated. 

Dead by Daylight

Slender mansion au + Splendorman

Slenderman had proxies that hunted and killed but what about Splendorman? Had always been the opposite of his stuffy older brother. When visiting after his domain collapses, he brings along his proxies. To which slender’s housemates/proxies were unaware existed. 

Splendor’s proxies are different. They don’t kill to feed him. They survive to feed him. Splendor puts them in near constant mortal peril for his own entertainment and sustenance. Be it randomly spawning them in the wilderness, sending random attackers after them, or straight up slicing off limbs. Most of his proxies don’t last a week. But yn has for years. Grizzled and exhausted, yn is a ruthless survivalist. They to keep the others alive but those stupid assholes never listen. There’s maybe one or two other proxies but they’re just this weeks cannon fodder. 

Splendor convinces Slender to let their proxies play. AKA “Hey! Your proxies should hunt mine down and try to kill them! Who ever has the best proxies wins this (slenders domain). Wouldn’t that be funny!” Except the game is contained to be only inside the vast slender mansion. 

Fun dynamics ensue. Cat and mouse. Splendor has a time out twice a day for a few minutes. Which really makes things awkward when a pasta is about to kill yn and they have to let them go because breaking the rules on their end means death. Ensue awkwardly eating lunch in the same room after trying to kill eachother. Okay, time outs over. Yns already gone. 

A rivalry esc romance blossoms from there. They def hatefuck. 

Meat Is Me

EJ x reader

Life hadn’t gone the way you wanted. Now you were working as a mortuary assistant. Work was gruesome but not that bad. Until money gets tight at work and you’re alone, finishing cleaning up after the boss went home. Strange people come into the mortuary, family, with fists full of cash to spend just another hour with their loved one alone.

Afterward, you don’t think that was a family member but you’ve made one month’s rent in a single night. He keeps coming back. He tells other freaks. They come in the night when you’re alone. You have to hide the things they do to the bodies from your boss. Sometimes they take pieces. But at least your pockets are well lined. It was almost worth it until he came in.

He hid his face. You thought he was more shameful than the other necro-freaks. When you go to check on the body after he’s had his time with it. Fuck. He’d re-opened the chest cavity you so skillfully sewn shut post-autopsy. Everything was fucking gone. Worst of all? He skipped on paying you.

You manage to hide it from the boss. But he keeps coming back. He keeps taking more and more. You can’t go to the cops about him skimping your cash, you weren’t doing the most legal shit either. But you were too pussy to do anything about it. Especially after you walked in on one of his sessions and found a gray-fleshed monster eating strings of tendon from the body. 

How the hell are you going to get out of this one? 

The Archive

Just a magnus archive au where yn is John and the creepypastas are the fears. Think about it ok.

[monkey-observer]

Lost to the Passage, all alone

Time. A concept that looms, ever-present, above humanity. Every task, every interaction, every drawn breath, time governs them all. Life, too, is a concept governed by time. Each person's life being a lowly cog in the clock of time, one in which the hands turn slowly, counting down to one's demise. Nobody knows when such things occur, nor the reason for them coming to pass, that is what I've always believed.

I rose from my bed, the haze of slumber being dispelled hastily from my eyes. The sun had risen to the apex of the sky, illuminating the drab city out the window. I left my house without a second thought, the menial tasks of bystanders not interesting me. Since youth, I had been regarded as a spirit with untapped potential, one with the academic prowess to change the lives of many for the better. "Foolishness," I thought, casting away the thought of greater purpose.

Two decades had yet to pass since I was haphazardly placed upon this world. Yet, as I looked around the city center, which had been a mundane sight to me for as long as time would allow me to recall, I saw that coveted treasure which I had not yet possessed. Pairs of people parading around like flies around a light, each burdened with their own worries, their own sorrows. "A waste of time." I thought once again, glaring at each passerby with eyes of contempt. "Do these fools have no grasp on that which is required for progress? What do these people seek from companionship? Such temporary concepts have no place in life." I turned away, walking back towards the dank corridors of my abode.

I had never been one to give that which did not appeal to me anything greater than a second thought. Speech had become a distant memory, for I gained nothing from exchanging words with those who would succumb to the hands of time and their vicious rotations. I sunk into the darkness of my house once more, not caring enough to turn the lights on, for the comfort of a warm home was one that faded with time, no matter what. My phone buzzed, lively lights and sounds emerging from the table where it lay. My blood boiled with anger, my mind racing with thoughts of violence, of destruction. "Who in their right mind sees themselves as worthy to try talking to me? Who thinks that they're immune to time's cycle, to where they can invest in meaningless connections? Useless…it's all useless. I won't stand for it." I thought, my fists clenched to where blood began trickling down my hands. I lunge for the table, smashing my phone into pieces.

Darkness had resonated with me since childhood. An environment in which plants refuse to grow, accepting their futility against the passage of time, and one where energy and light devolve into waste in favor of the macabre and the melancholic. I gazed at the smashed phone for no longer than five seconds, before collapsing upon the sofa. I was familiar with the feeling of being drained of energy, in fact, I had come to enjoy the numb sensation. However, I noted my inability to lift a finger, nor utter a word if I tried. "What…is wrong with me? This is no…truancy on my part…is this the limit of restlessness?" Such thoughts passed my mind by at a speed that eluded my conscience. For the first time in my mundane life, I felt panic. More panic than any other occurrence could ever hope to garner from my husk of a soul.

Hope was not a concept that I had ever bought into. The idea being shown to me as a youth meant nothing to me. Hypocrisy was what I saw it as. The nerve of my parents to tell me that hope is ever-present, only for them to pass on, taking their falsehoods with them. As I lay on the sofa, paralyzed and unable to move, my mind flashed back to their final moments. "Was this…what they felt? No, I cannot…possibly be falling prey to time already. I'm so young…I have so many…things to do." My mind raced faster and faster, though I knew that my own thoughts were betraying me. I didn't have things to do, nor did I have hope for the future. My thoughts clouded, becoming less and less clear, until all I could see was the void.

The grandfather clock of my ornate living room tolled six times. Six o'clock, a time once spent with a son and parents, mulling over the future that the parents had planned for the boy. Now, those same parents were long deceased, and the son had followed suit. I lay on the sofa, deceased, but for how long. Had I always been deceased? Was this all merely a vision, a sick joke from the mastermind behind death? My restless mind had found peace, yet I was all alone again. Lost to the passage of time, all alone.